~PS 

325 


ametican  jtten  of  Letters 


WALT  WHITMAN 


American  $®en  of 


WALT  WHITMAN 


BLISS  PERRY 


BOSTON   AND   NEW   YORK 
HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
Cambnt»0e 


COPYRIGHT   1906  BY  BLISS  PERRY 
ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


PREFACE 

THE  publishers  of  this  book  hoped  for  many  years 
that  Mr.  John  Burroughs,  one  of  Walt  Whitman's 
oldest  friends,  would  write  Whitman's  Life.  As 
other  literary  engagements  prevented  Mr.  Bur- 
roughs from  carrying  out  this  plan,  I  was  asked  to 
undertake  the  present  volume.  Mr.  Burroughs 
has  generously  aided  me  in  many  ways,  and  has 
allowed  me  to  make  use  of  manuscript  material  in 
his  possession.  Mrs.  Ellen  M.  Calder  of  Provi- 
dence, the  widow  of  Whitman's  friend  William 
Douglas  O'Connor,  promptly  placed  in  my  hands 
the  very  large  collection  of  letters  by  the  poet  and 
by  his  friends  and  correspondents,  originally  gath- 
ered by  Mr.  O'Connor.  Mr.  J.  T.  Trowbridge  and 
Professor  Edward  Dowden  have  allowed  me  to 
draw  freely  upon  Whitman's  letters  to  them. 

I  am  also  indebted  to  Mr.  E.  C.  Stedman,  to 
Dr.  Weir  Mitchell,  and  to  Mr.  R.  W.  Gilder  for 
their  courteous  assistance.  Dr.  Talcott  Williams 


vi  PREFACE 

of  Philadelphia,  with  his  characteristic  generos- 
ity toward  literary  workers,  gave  me  access  to  his 
rich  collection  of  W  hitman  material.  Mr.  Horace 
Traubel,  one  of  Whitman's  literary  executors, 
and  Mr.  Laurens  Maynard  of  Small,  Maynard 
&  Co.,  Whitman's  publishers,  have  aided  me  in 
every  way  possible.  I  am  indebted  to  Mr.  Charles 
H.  Ames  of  Boston  for  pointing  out  the  singular 
stylistic  correspondence  between  Samuel  War- 
ren's The  Lily  and  the  Bee  and  Whitman's 
Leaves  of  Grass.1  My  thanks  are  due  to  Profes- 
sor Charles  F.  Richardson  of  Dartmouth  for  writ- 
ing out  the  curious  story  of  Whitman's  visit  to 
Hanover  in  1872 ;  and  to  John  Boyd  Thacher, 
Esq.,  of  Albany,  for  allowing  me  to  print,  from 
the  manuscript  in  his  possession,  Whitman's 
interesting  criticism  of  his  own  poem  on  that  occa- 
sion. 

My  acknowledgments  should  also  be  made  to 
William  Sloane  Kennedy,  to  Professor  F.  N. 
Scott  of  the  University  of  Michigan,  to  Mr. 
Albert  Phelps  of  New  Orleans,  to  Professor 
George  H.  Palmer  of  Harvard  University,  to 
Mr.  William  Roscoe  Thayer,  to  Miss  Jeannette 
Gilder,  and  to  Miss  Elizabeth  Porter  Gould,  for 

1  See  Appendix. 


PREFACE  vii 

information  which  has  proved  of  service.  Two 
books  about  Whitman  which  have  appeared  while 
my  own  work  was  in  progress  —  H.  B.  Binns's 
Life  of  Walt  Whitman  and  Horace  TraubePs 
With  Walt  Whitman  in  Camden  —  have  helped 
me  at  many  points. 

My  friend  Mr.  M.  A.  DeWolfe  Howe  has 
been  good  enough  to  read  this  volume  in  manu- 
script, and  to  give  me  the  opportunity  of  profiting 
by  a  criticism  as  accomplished  as  it  is  kindly. 

BLISS  PERRY. 

CAMBRIDGE,  June,  1906. 

PREFACE  TO  SECOND  EDITION 

THE  hospitable  reception  given  to  the  first 
edition  of  this  book,  both  in  this  country  and  in 
England,  is  naturally  gratifying  to  its  author. 
I  wish  especially  to  thank  the  many  surviving 
friends  of  the  poet  who  have  written  me  that 
this  brief  biography  does  justice  to  the  man  they 
knew.  Certain  passages,  however,  have  given 
offense  to  Whitman's  literary  executors.  In  a  few 
instances  I  have  been  able  to  modify  the  phrase- 
ology of  the  first  edition.  All  of  the  changes 
are  indicated  in  the  Appendix,  where  I  have  also 


viii  PREFACE 

printed  some  extracts  from  letters  written  to 
correct  this  or  that  detail.  For  all  such  criticism 
I  wish  to  express  my  obligation. 

With  regard  to  certain  phases  of  Whitman's 
life,  I  have  had  to  depend  upon  verbal  testi- 
mony. Some  of  this  testimony  was  in  the  nature 
of  the  case  confidential,  and  although  it  had  to 
do  with  controverted  questions,  I  have  not  felt 
at  liberty  to  give  in  every  instance  the  authority 
for  the  statements  which  I  have  made,  although 
I  have  been  challenged  to  do  so  by  The  Con- 
servator. I  do  not  care  to  have  the  persons  who 
have  been  kind  enough  to  assist  me  in  a  some- 
what difficult  task  subjected  to  personal  abuse 
in  The  Conservator,  and  I  prefer  to  take  the 
full  responsibility  for  what  I  have  printed. 

B.  P. 

CAMBRIDGE,  January,  1908. 


CONTENTS 

I.  A  CHILD  WENT  FORTH     (1818-1839)  1 

II.  THE  CARESSER  OF  LIFE     (1839-1855)  21 

HI.   LEAVES  OF  GRASS      .    .    (1855-1861)  67 

IV.   WAR-TIME (1861-1865)  132 

V.  THE    CLERK    AND    His 

FRIENDS      ....     (1865-1873)  158 

VI.   THE  CAMDEN  BARD      .     (1873-1892)  214 

VH.  AFTER  FIFTY  YEARS 273 

APPENDIX 309 

INDEX  325 


WALT  WHITMAN 


WALT  WHITMAN 


CHAPTER  I 

A  CHILD  WENT  FORTH 

"  Starting  from  fish-shape  Paumanok  where  I  was  born, 
Well-begotten,  and  rais'd  by  a  perfect  mother." 

Leaves  of  Grass. 

To  find  the  birthplace  of  Walt  Whitman  one 
must  journey  thirty  miles  eastward  from  New 
York,  by  the  Long  Island  Railroad.  It  is  a  flat, 
pleasant  country,  now  more  suburban  than  rural. 
Long  Island  Sound  is  on  the  left,  but  is  out 
of  sight.  By  and  by  the  track  begins  to  climb 
among  thickly  wooded  hills.  Here  is  Cold  Spring, 
the  border  town  of  Suffolk  County,  and  the  next 
stop  is  Huntington,  where  one  leaves  the  train. 
The  main  village,  a  mile  north  of  the  railroad, 
clusters  sleepily  around  the  Harbor,  a  deep  inlet 
from  the  Sound.  The  good  anchorage,  and  the 
fertile,  well-watered  farm  lands  around  it,  early 
attracted  colonists  from  New  England,  who  were, 
according  to  a  local  historian,  "  earnest  in  cher- 
ishing and  extending  the  genial  influence  of 


2  WALT   WHITMAN 

Christianity."  Huntington  was  thus  settled  in 
1653  by  a  colony  from  Sandwich,  Massachusetts. 
For  some  six  miles  square  of  excellent  land  they 
paid  the  native  Indians  "6  coats,  6  kettles,  6 
hatchets,  6  howes,  6  shirts,  10  knives,  6  fathom 
of  wampum,  30  muxes  [eel-spears],  30  needles." 
Three  years  later  the  township  was  increased  by 
the  Eastern  Purchase,  "  in  consideration  of  two 
coates,  fore  shertes,  seven  quarts  of  licker  and 
aleven  ounces  of  powder."  *  It  does  not  appear, 
however,  that  there  were  any  Whitmans  among 
these  promoters  of  the  genial  influences  of  Chris- 
tianity. By  1660,  the  little  settlement  of  Hun- 
tington, fearing  trouble  with  the  Dutch  neigh- 
bors who  crowded  it  closely  upon  the  west, 
passed  under  the  protection  of  Connecticut.  In 
or  about  that  year,  Joseph  Whitman,2  the  first 
known  ancestor  of  Walt,  crossed  the  Sound 
from  Stratford,  Connecticut,  and  took  up  a 
farm  in  Huntington.  Undoubtedly  he  was  born 

1  Huntington  Town  Records,  vol.  i. 

2  Dr.  R.  M.  Bucke  and  subsequent  biographers,  including 
Whitman  himself,  have  supposed  that  Joseph  Whitman  was 
the  son  of  the  Rev.  Zechariah  Whitman,  an  Independent  cler- 
gyman of  Milford,  Conn.,  who  had  come  from  England  in  1635, 
and  who  was  the  brother  of  John  Whitman,  —  the  ancestor  of 
most  of  the  American  Whitmans,  —  who  had  come  to  Wey- 
mouth,  Mass.,  in  the  True  Love  in  1640.    Zechariah  Whitman, 
however,  died  without  issue,  leaving  his  property  to  a  nephew, 
the  Rev.  Zechariah  Whitman  the  younger.   See  The  Descend- 
ants of  John  Whitman,  by  C.  II.  Faruaui,  New  Haven, 


A  CHILD  WENT  FORTH  3 

in  England,  as  the  records  of  the  General  Court 
of  New  Haven  show  that  he  was  a  resident  of 
Stratford  as  early  as  1655.  His  fellow  towns- 
men in  Huntington  chose  him  as  constable  in 
1665,  and  afterwards  elected  him  to  other  offices. 
The  names  of  his  children  cannot  definitely  be 
traced,  but  his  grandson  Nehemiah  was  Walt 
Whitman's  great-grandfather.  It  is  not  unlikely 
that  the  "John  Whitman,  Sr."  who  joined  the 
First  Church  of  Huntington  in  1728,  and  held 
many  town  offices  between  1718  and  1730,  was 
the  son  of  Joseph  and  the  father  of  Nehemiah.1 
At  any  rate  the  tribe  increased.  In  1694  "  Whit- 
man's dale  or  hollow  "  is  mentioned  in  a  patent  es- 
tablishing the  boundaries  of  Huntington.  With- 
in the  limits  of  the  township  distinct  hamlets 
were  already  forming,  such  as  Cold  Spring,  in  the 
northwest  corner  of  the  grant,  where  lived  the 
Dutch  family  of  Van  Velsors.  Three  or  four 
miles  south  of  Huntington  Harbor  was  another 
hamlet  named  West  Hills,  where  the  long  level 
meadows  are  suddenly  hemmed  in  by  ridges 
of  glacial  gravel.  From  the  wooded  summits  of 
these  hills,  —  the  highest  land  upon  Long  Island 
—  one  may  catch  a  glimpse  to  the  northward  of 
the  Sound,  or  may  see  the  flash  of  the  Atlantic 
a  dozen  miles  to  the  south. 

1  See  the  Records  of  the  First  Church  of  Huntington,  L.  L, 
and  the  Huntinyton  Town  Records  already  cited. 


4  WALT  WHITMAN 

It  was  here  that  the  Whitmans  flourished, 
their  great  farms  spreading  over  the  fat  mead- 
ows and  up  into  the  woodland.  Nehemiah  Whit- 
man is  said  to  have  owned  at  one  time  nearly 
five  hundred  acres,  tilled  by  slaves.  His  wife, 
the  poet's  great-grandmother,  made  a  vigorous 
overseer,  swearing  at  her  slaves  from  horseback, 
using  tobacco  freely,  and  living  to  be  ninety.  In 
Walt  Whitman's  sketch  of  Elias  Hicks,1  the  fa- 
mous Quaker  preacher,  he  mentions  "  my  great- 
grandfather Whitman"  as  a  frequent  companion 
of  Elias  at  merrymakings  before  the  Revolution- 
ary War.  But  inasmuch  as  Elias  Hicks  (1748- 
1830)  was  more  than  forty  years  younger  than 
Nehemiah  Whitman,  it  is  probable  that  Walt 
had  in  mind  his  grandfather  Jesse  (1749-1803), 
who  was  nearly  the  same  age  as  the  mystical 
preacher.  Jesse  Whitman  succeeded  in  due  time 
to  the  paternal  farm  and  lived  in  the  "  old  house  " 

—  a  portion  of  which  was  standing  until  recently 

—  where  his  father,  Nehemiah,  had  been  born  and 
had  died.   He  married  in  1775  a  schoolmistress, 
Hannah  Brush,  and  among  their  children  was 
Walter  Whitman    (1789-1855)    the  father  of 
the  poet. 

Walter  Whitman  varied  the  ancestral  occu- 
pation by  turning  carpenter  and  house-builder. 
He  was  a  big-boned,  silent,  troubled-looking  man, 

1  Prose  Works,  p.  459. 


A  CHILD  WENT  FORTH  5 

wrathful  upon  occasion.  Though  in  no  wise 
prominent  in  the  community,  he  was  a  good 
workman,  and  was  respected  by  his  neighbors. 
Like  most  of  the  older  families  in  Huntington, 
the  Whitmans  during  the  eighteenth  century  had 
lost  the  church-going  habit.  But  they  "  leaned 
to  the  Quakers,"  it  was  said,  and  Walter  Whit- 
man retained  a  sort  of  dumb  loyalty  to  Elias 
Hicks.  "  I  can  remember,"  *  wrote  the  poet  in 
1888,  describing  his  boyhood  in  Brooklyn,  sixty 
years  before,  "  my  father  coming  home  toward 
sunset  from  his  day's  work  as  carpenter,  and 
saying  briefly  as  he  throws  down  an  armful  of 
kindling  blocks  with  a  bounce  on  the  kitchen 
floor,  '  Come,  mother,  Elias  preaches  to-night.'  " 
Then  the  mother  would  hasten  the  supper  and 
the  table-cleaning,  and  they  would  start  for  the 
meeting. 

The  poet's  mother, "  a  daily  and  daring  rider  " 
in  her  youth,  —  a  stout,  placid  matron  in  a 
checked  gown,  as  the  daguerreotype  reveals  her, 
—  was  Louisa  Van  Velsor  (1795-1873)  of  Cold 
Spring.  Her  father,  Major  Cornelius  Van  Velsor, 
was  a  loud-voiced,  ruddy-faced  horse-breeder. 
The  Van  Velsors  were  pure  Dutch,  but  "the 
Major  "  had  married  a  young  woman  of  Welsh 
descent  and  Quaker  sympathies  named  Amy 
(Naomi)  Williams.  Her  father  was  Captain 

1  Prose  Works,  p.  465. 


6  WALT  WHITMAN 

John  Williams,  a  sailor  of  likable  personality, 
and  her  mother  was  Mary  Woolley,  whom  piti- 
less tradition  records  as  "  shiftless."  It  will  thus 
be  seen  that  Louisa  Van  Velsor  was  of  mingled 
Dutch  and  Welsh  blood,  with  an  English  strain 
for  tempering.  She  was  almost  illiterate,  but 
her  son  was  never  weary  of  praising  her  as  a 
"  perfect  mother,"  and,  like  many  another  poet, 
he  seems  to  have  felt  more  directly  indebted 
to  her  than  to  his  father  for  his  inheritance 
of  gifts.  His  description  from  memory  of  the 
long-vanished  Van  Velsor  homestead  is  full  of 
charm,  as  he  recalls  the  "  rambling  dark -gray 
shingle-sided  house,  with  sheds,  pens,  a  great 
barn,  and  much  open  road-space ;  .  .  .  the  vast 
kitchen  and  ample  fireplace  and  the  sitting- 
room  adjoining,  the  plain  furniture,  the  meals, 
the  house  full  of  merry  people,  my  grandmother 
Amy's  sweet  old  face  in  its  Quaker  cap,  my 
grandfather  '  the  Major,'  jovial,  red,  stout,  with 
sonorous  voice  and  characteristic  physiognomy." 
As  one  reads  these  characterizations  of  the 
distaff  side  of  the  poet's  ancestry,  with  such  ad- 
jectives as  "  jovial,"  "  genial,"  "  shiftless,"  and 
"  sweet "  chiming  through  them  like  pleasant 
bells,  one  can  readily  believe  that  the  Van  Vel- 
sors  were  more  interesting  and  varied  in  char- 
acter than  the  Whitmans.  For  more  than  a 
century  and  a  half  preceding  the  poet's  birth 


A  CHILD  WENT  FORTH  7 

the  Whitmans  had  lived  in  Huntington  without 
becoming  specially  noted  for  public  service 
or  personal  distinction.  Prosperous  and  prolific 
enough,  they  seem  to  have  been  without  the  in- 
tellectual ambition  which  was  sending  sons  of  thtf 
New  England  Whitmans  to  Harvard  and  Yale 
and  without  the  moral  fervor  that  drove  MarcuL 
Whitman,  in  Walt's  early  manhood,  upon  his  in- 
domitable journeys  to  and  from  Oregon.  The 
stock  seems  to  have  been  at  its  best  about  the  close 
of  the  Revolution.  Huntington  suffered  severely 
in  that  struggle,  and  many  of  the  Whitmans 
enlisted.  In  the  assessment  of  taxable  pro- 
perty at  the  end  of  the  war,  Isaiah,  Nehemiah, 
and  Stephen  Whitman,  all  heads  of  families, 
appear  as  substantial  land  owners,  while  Jesse 
Whitman,  Nehemiah's  son,  is  taxed  for  consider- 
ably less.  Shortly  thereafter  the  race  seems  to 
scatter  and  decline,  producing  at  last  one  man 
of  genius,  and  then  swiftly,  in  the  melancholy 
New  England  vocabulary,  "  petering  out." 

When  Walter  Whitman  the  carpenter  took 
home  his  bride  Louisa  Van  Velsor,  in  1816,  it 
was  to  the  "  new  house,"  built  half  a  dozen  years 
before.  The  pilgrim  finds  it  practically  unchanged 
to-day.  It  stands  close  to  a  cross-road,  a  little  to 
the  left  of  the  old  main  road  that  runs  from 
Huntingtou  southward  across  the  Island.  This 
old  road  has  now  become  "  New  York  Avenue," 


8  WALT  WHITMAN 

and  is  soon  to  be  invaded  by  the  electric  car,  but 
the  cross-roads,  shaded  by  scrub  oak,  locusts,  and 
cedars,  retain  something  of  their  ancient  charm. 
The  gray,  wide-shingled,  weather-beaten  houses 
—  usually  with  a  duck-pond  in  front  and  an  un- 
trimmed  apple  orchard  behind  —  are  of  an  eight- 
eenth century  type.  The  Whitman  house  is 
scarcely  more  than  twenty  feet  square,  with  an 
"L  "  still  smaller;  a  high-pitched,  awkward  roof- 
tree  enough,  lately  covered  with  new  shingles,  but 
otherwise  unaltered.  Upon  a  marble  slab  affixed 
to  a  boulder  by  the  roadside  is  the  inscription :  — 

To  Mark  the  Birthplace 

of  Walt  Whitman 

The  Good  Gray  Poet 

Born  May  31,  1819 

Erected  by  the  Colonial  Society 

of  Huntington,  1905. 

The  poet  was  the  second  of  nine  children, 
seven  of  whom  were  boys.  He  was  named  after 
his  father,  but  was  always  called  "  Walt "  in 
childhood  to  distinguish  him  from  the  carpenter ; 
and  though  he  signed  himself  "  Walter  Whit- 
man" during  the  earliest  years  of  authorship, 
he  reverted  in  1855,  and  held  uniformly  there- 
after, to  the  more  intimate  and  affectionate 
boyhood  name.  He  had  a  brother  Jesse,  a  year 
older  than  himself.  The  next  two  children  were 
girls,  and  the  fifth  child  died  in  infancy.  Three 


A  CHILD  WENT  FORTH  9 

younger  brothers  bore  the  patriotic  names  of  An- 
drew Jackson,  George  Washington  and  Thomas 
Jefferson.  The  last,  born  when  Walt  was  four- 
teen, became  the  object  of  his  special  care  and 
companionship,  The  youngest  child,  Edward, 
was  imbecile ;  the  oldest  died  a  lunatic ;  and  in- 
deed none  of  the  children,  except  Walt,  showed 
any  marked  intellectual  or  moral  stamina.1 

The  family  life  of  the  Whitmans  was  char- 
acterized by  the  absolute  simplicity  common  to 
American  rural  homes  in  the  early  part  of  the 
nineteenth  century.  Whittier,  born  a  dozen 
years  before  Walt  Whitman,  has  left  pleasing 
pictures  of  a  boyhood  passed  under  the  hard  and 
narrow  conditions  of  the  farm.  The  few  glimpses 
that  we  have  of  the  Whitman  home  reveal  a 
less  strenuous  existence ;  there  is  more  freedom, 
spontaneity,  laxity,  with  the  same  atmosphere  of 
vigorous  health.  The  little  Walt  must  have 
looked  like  a  sturdy,  jolly  Dutch  baby,  with 
singularly  fair  skin,  hair  "black  as  tar,"  —  as 
he  told  Mrs.  O'Connor, —  and  blue-gray  eyes 
that  early  caught  the  trick  of  gazing  steadily. 
His  own  memories  of  childhood  show  how 
deeply  the  sights  and  sounds  of  West  Hills 
entered  into  his  being  : — 

"  The  early  lilacs  became  part  of  this  child, 
And  grass  and  white  and  red  morning  glories,  and  white 
and  red  clover  and  the  song  of  the  phoabe-bird, 
1  See  Appendix. 


10  WALT   WHITMAN 

And  the  third-month  lambs  and  the  sow's  pink-faint  lit- 
ter, and  the  mare's  foal  and  the  cow's  calf, 

And  the  noisy  brood  of  the  barn-yard  or  by  the  mire  of 
the  pond-side." 

The  picture  of  his  mother,  too,  is  like  a  Dutch 
portrait : — 

"  The  mother  at  home  quietly  placing  the  dishes  on  the 

supper-table, 
The  mother  with  mild  words,  clean  her  cap  and  gown,  a 

wholesome  odor  falling  off  her  person  and  clothes 

as  she  walks  by." 

With  his  father  there  was  less  instinctive  sym- 
pathy, though  the  following  lines  must  not  be 
construed  as  a  literal  sketch  of  Walter  Whit- 
man:— 

"  The  father  strong,  self-sufficient,  manly,  mean,  angered, 
unjust. 

The  blow,  the  quick  loud  word,  the  tight  bargain,  the 
crafty  lure. 

The  family  usages,  the  language,  the  company,  the  fur- 
niture, the  yearning  and  swelling  heart." 

But  evidently  it  was  not  always  calm  in  the 
carpenter's  household,  and  the  yearning  hearts 
of  the  children  needed  comforting.  It  may  be 
noted  that  certain  sanctions,  which  have  touched 
the  early  years  of  many  poets  with  a  mysterious 
sense  of  other- worldlin ess,  were  quite  absent 
here.  There  were  no  religious  observances  of 
any  sort  in  the  Whitman  household.  The  father, 


A  CHILD   WENT  FORTH  11 

though  a  good  workman,  was  restless  and  dissat- 
isfied, and  seems  not  to  have  had  the  knack  of 
"  getting  on." 

When  Walt  was  only  four,  the  family  mi- 
grated to  Brooklyn,  thirty  miles  away,  and  for 
the  next  few  years  they  lived  in  various  houses 
on  Front,  Cranberry,  Johnson,  and  Tillary 
Streets.  "  We  occupied  them,  one  after  the 
other,  but  they  were  mortgaged  and  we  lost 
them;"  so  wrote  the  poet  in  his  old  age.  But 
his  memories  of  Brooklyn  were  for  the  most  part 
happy,  as  a  boy's  should  be.  The  "  village,"  for 
such  it  remained  legally  until  1834,  had  in  1823, 
when  the  Whitmans  moved  thither,  but  seven 
thousand  inhabitants.  For  every  purpose  of  a 
boy,  it  was  like  living  in  the  country.  The 
younger  Whitmans  seem  to  have  journeyed  often 
back  to  the  old  home  at  West  Hills,  and  to 
other  spots  in  Queens  and  Suffolk  Counties. 
The  ocean  side  of  Long  Island,  with  its  Great 
South  Bay  and  its  atmosphere  of  storm  and 
shipwreck,  made  an  ineffaceable  impression  upon 
Walt  Whitman's  mind.  But  the  prevailing  spirit 
was  one  of  healthy  sport,  mingling  with  the 
half -apprehended  landscape  sentiment  dear  to 
boyhood.  Here  are  a  few  reminiscences  from 
Specimen  Days:  — 

"  Inside  the  outer  bars  or  beach  this  south  bay 
is  everywhere  comparatively  shallow;  of  cold 


12  WALT  WHITMAN 

winters  all  thick  ice  on  the  surface.  As  a  boy  I 
often  went  forth  with  a  chum  or  two,  on  those 
frozen  fields,  with  hand-sled,  axe  and  eel-spear, 
after  messes  of  eels.  We  would  cut  holes 
in  the  ice,  sometimes  striking  quite  an  eel 
bonanza,  and  filling  our  baskets  with  great  fat, 
sweet,  white-meated  fellows.  .  .  .  The  shores 
of  this  bay,  winter  and  summer,  and  my  doings 
there  in  early  life,  are  woven  all  through  L. 
of  G."  [L eaves  of  Grass.] 

One  sport  which  the  boy  particularly  loved 
was  the  gathering  of  sea-gulls'  eggs  in  summer, 
on  the  sand  of  the  great  bays.  He  disliked  gun- 
ning and  cared  little  for  fishing,  but  he  loved  a 
boat,  and  was  never  weary  of  roaming  on  foot, 
even  in  very  early  boyhood,  over  the  wilder 
places  of  "Paumanok,"  as  the  Indians  had 
called  Long  Island.  The  wide  Hempstead  plains 
especially  fascinated  him :  "  I  have  often  been 
out  on  the  edges  of  these  plains  toward  sundown, 
and  can  yet  recall  in  fancy  the  interminable 
cow-processions,  and  hear  the  music  of  the  tin 
or  copper  bells  clanking  far  or  near,  and  breathe 
the  cool  of  the  sweet  and  slightly  aromatic  even- 
ing air,  and  note  the  sunset." 

But  the  city,  as  well  as  the  country,  began 
to  furnish  memorable  sights.  When  Lafayette 
made  his  triumphal  tour  of  America  in  1824,  he 
visited  Brooklyn,  and  laid  the  corner-stone  of  a 


A  CHILD   WENT  FORTH  13 

public  library.  Throngs  of  children  crowded 
around  the  excavation  to  see  the  distinguished 
visitor,  and  Lafayette  himself,  dismounting  from 
his  canary-colored  coach,  picked  up  the  five- 
year-old  Walt  Whitman, —  who  was  no  doubt  a 
most  chubby  and  wholesome  little  fellow,  —  gave 
him  a  kiss,  and  set  him  in  a  safe  place.  Types 
of  the  coming  American  aristocracy,  so  sharply 
different  from  those  of  the  old  world,  were  soon 
to  confront  the  boy ;  for  a  few  years  after  La- 
fayette's visit,  on  a  sharp,  bright  January  day, 
just  below  Houston  street  in  New  York,  he 
saw  "  a  bent,  feeble  but  stout-built  very  old  man, 
bearded,  swathed  in  rich  furs,  with  a  great  er- 
mine cap  on  his  head,  led  and  assisted,  almost 
carried,  down  the  steps  of  his  high  front  stoop 
(a  dozen  friends  and  servants,  emulous,  carefully 
holding,  guiding  him)  and  then  lifted  and  tuck'd 
in  a  gorgeous  sleigh,  envelop'd  in  other  furs,  for 
a  ride.  The  sleigh  was  drawn  by  as  fine  a  team  of 
horses  as  I  ever  saw.  ...  I  remember  the  spirited 
champing  horses,  the  driver  with  his  whip,  and 
a  fellow-driver  by  his  side,  for  extra  prudence. 
The  old  man,  the  subject  of  so  much  attention,  I 
can  almost  see  now.  It  was  John  Jacob  Astor."  1 

Walt  Whitman's  schooling  was  but  scanty. 
In  the  common  schools  of  Brooklyn,  then  in 

1  Prose  Works,  p.  12. 


14  WALT  WHITMAN 

their  infancy,  instruction  was  limited  to  reading, 
writing,  and  arithmetic, —  with  a  little  grammar 
and  geography.  None  of  his  teachers  made  suf- 
ficient impression  upon  him  to  be  mentioned  by 
name,  and  he  left  school  forever  at  the  age  of 
thirteen.  He  never  learned  any  language  except 
English,  in  spite  of  his  curious  fondness  in  later 
life  for  using  words  borrowed  —  or  sometimes 
invented  —  from  French  and  Spanish  sources. 
But  he  was  fond  of  reading,  and  happening  to 
enter  a  lawyer's  office  as  errand  boy,  he  found 
encouragement  from  his  employers,  a  father  and 
two  sons  named  Clarke.  "I  had,"  he  says,  "  a 
nice  desk  and  window-nook  to  myself;  Edward 
C.  kindly  help'd  me  at  my  hand-writing  and 
composition,  and  (the  signal  event  of  my  life  up 
to  that  time)  subscribed  for  me  to  a  big  circu- 
lating library.  For  a  time  I  now  revel'd  in  ro- 
mance-reading of  all  kinds ;  first  the  Arabian 
Nights,  all  the  volumes,  an  amazing  treat.  Then, 
with  sorties  in  very  many  other  directions,  took 
in  Walter  Scott's  novels,  one  after  another,  and 
his  poetry." 

This  agreeable  berth  was  exchanged,  after  a 
little,  for  one  in  a  doctor's  office.  Then,  while 
still  early  in  his  teens,  the  boy  went  to  work  at 
type-setting  in  the  printing  office  of  the  Long 
Island  Patriot,  a  weekly  paper  owned  by  the 
Brooklyn  postmaster.  Walt,  with  the  other  ap- 


A   CHILD   WENT  FORTH  15 

prentices,  boarded  with  the  grand-daughter  of  a 
fellow  workman.,  and  liked  his  new  employment. 
He  grew  rapidly,  and  at  fifteen  had  nearly  a 
man's  height  and  vigor.  One  may  suspect  that 
he  was  a  somewhat  idle  apprentice,  for  he  notes 
"  being  down  Long  Island  more  or  less  every 
summer,  now  east,  now  west,  sometimes  months 
at  a  stretch." 

After  a  while  he  left  the  Patriot  for  the  Star. 
Like  Franklin  and  many  another  young  printer, 
he  had  already  begun  to  feel  the  itch  of  compo- 
sition. "  The  first  time  I  ever  wanted  to  write 
anything  enduring,"  he  said  in  his  old  age,  "was 
when  I  saw  a  ship  under  full  sail,  and  had  the 
desire  to  describe  it  exactly  as  it  seemed  to  me." 
He  had  written  some  "sentimental  bits"  for  the 
Patriot,  and  shortly  afterwards  "  had  a  piece  or 
two  in  George  P.  Morris's  then  celebrated  and 
fashionable  Mirror,  in  New  York  City.  I  re- 
member with  what  half -suppressed  excitement  I 
used  to  watch  for  the  big,  fat,  red-faced,  slow- 
moving,  very  old  English  carrier  who  distri- 
buted the  Mirror  in  Brooklyn ;  and  when  I  got 
one,  opening  and  cutting  the  leaves  with  trem- 
bling fingers.  How  it  made  my  heart  double-beat 
to  see  my  piece  on  the  pretty  white  paper  in 
nice  type !  "  At  sixteen  he  became  the  owner  of 
a  stout  volume  containing  all  of  Scott's  poems ; 
"an  inexhaustible  mine  and  treasury"  which  he 


16  WALT  WHITMAN 

cherished  for  fifty  years.  He  developed  a  fond- 
ness for  debating  societies,  and  at  seventeen  was 
a  member  of  more  than  one,  in  Brooklyn  and 
in  near-by  villages.  The  theatre  fascinated  him 
early,  and  some  casual  work  as  a  compositor  in 
New  York  gave  him  opportunity  to  indulge  his 
passion  for  it. 

About  his  eighteenth  year  he  became  restless 
again,  and  tried  school-teaching  in  country  vil- 
lages in  Queens  and  Suffolk  Counties.  He 
"  boarded  round,"  and  thought  this  one  of  the 
best  experiences  of  his  life.  All  that  is  really 
known  of  Whitman  as  a  school-teacher  was  gath- 
ered from  an  interview  in  1894  with  Charles  A. 
Roe,1  who  was  his  pupil  in  Flushing,  Long 
Island,  when  about  ten  years  of  age.  Though 
more  than  half  a  century  had  then  elapsed,  the 
vivid  impression  made  by  the  ruddy-cheeked, 
clear-eyed,  kindly  teacher  had  not  faded.  It 
must  here  be  summed  up  briefly.  Young  Whit- 
man had  original  ideas,  it  appears,  about  teach- 
ing mental  arithmetic ;  was  fond  of  describing 
objects  and  incidents  to  his  scholars ;  had  au- 
thority without  severity ;  was  decidedly  serious 
in  manner ;  was  diffident  with  women  and  "  not 
religious  in  any  way,"  to  the  especial  regret  of  a 
friendly  mother  of  four  daughters,  with  whom  he 

1    Walt  Whitman  Fellowship  Papers,  PhUadelphia,  April 
1895L 


A  CHILD  WENT  FORTH  17 

boarded.  He  was  already  reputed  to  have  writ- 
ten poetry.  He  dressed  neatly  in  a  black  frock 
coat,  was  of  beautiful  complexion  and  rugged 
health,  and  spent  every  possible  moment  out  of 
doors.  In  short,  Mr.  Roe  reported  him  as  "a 
man  out  of  the  average,  who  strangely  attracted 
our  respect  and  affection." 

But  the  calm  and  self-reliant  young  school- 
master, "  with  ideas  of  his  own,"  soon  felt  once 
more  the  stirrings  of  an  inherited  restlessness, 
or  perhaps  a  still  deeper  instinct  that  impelled 
him  to  widen  constantly  his  circle  of  experience. 
The  ancestral  life  upon  a  Long  Island  farm  of- 
fered nothing  that  he  cared  for.  Teaching  had 
proved  pleasant  enough ;  what  if  writing  might 
be  better  still  ?  He  had  long  since  mastered  the 
trade  of  a  type-setter,  and  had  tasted  the  first  plea- 
sures of  authorship ;  and  now  what  more  inde- 
pendent and  satisfactory  calling  could  there  be 
for  a  vigorous  young  fellow  than  that  of  editor, 
compositor,  and  distributor  of  a  country  newspa- 
per? The  experiment  is  best  described  in  his 
own  words  :  — 

"  My  first  real  venture  was  the  Long  Islander, 
in  my  own  beautiful  town  of  Huntington,  Long 
Island,  New  York,  in  1839.  I  was  about  twenty 
years  old.  I  had  been  teaching  country  school 
for  two  or  three  years  in  various  parts  of  Suffolk 
and  Queens  Counties,  but  liked  printing.  I  had 


18  WALT  WHITMAN 

been  at  it  while  a  lad,  and  learned  the  trade  of 
compositor,  and  was  encouraged  to  start  a  paper 
in  the  region  where  I  was  born.  I  went  to  New 
York,  bought  a  press  and  types,  hired  some  little 
help,  but  did  most  of  the  work  myself,  including 
the  press-work.  Everything  seemed  turning  out 
well  (only  my  own  restlessness  prevented  my 
gradually  establishing  a  permanent  property 
there).  I  bought  a  good  horse,  and  every  week 
went  all  around  the  country  serving  my  papers, 
devoting  one  day  and  night  to  it.  I  never  had 
happier  jaunts  —  going  over  to  South  Side,  to 
Babylon,  down  the  South  Road,  across  to  Smith- 
town  and  Comae,  and  back  home.  The  experi- 
ences of  those  jaunts,  the  dear  old-fashioned  far- 
mers and  their  wives,  the  stops  by  the  hayfields, 
the  hospitality,  the  nice  dinners,  occasional  even- 
ings, the  girls,  the  rides  through  the  brush  and 
the  smell  from  the  salt  of  the  South  roads,  come 
up  in  my  memory  to  this  day,  after  more  than 
forty  years.  The  Long  Islander  has  stuck  it  out 
ever  since."  1 

Whitman's  childhood  was  now  over.  As  one 
reviews  it,  its  outward  features  are  clear  enough. 
A  stont  ancestry  of  mingled  strain,  winning  a 
comfortable  living  from  the  soil ;  surroundings 
of  quiet  beauty ;  a  home  where  there  was  much 
affection,  but  few  books  and  scanty  culture  ;  a 

1  Reminiscences  written  for  the  Camden,  N.  J.  Press. 


A  CHILD   WENT  FORTH  19 

family  habit  of  migration,  tinged  with  unsuc- 
cess ;  a  little  schooling  ;  a  various  apprentice- 
ship, ending  in  a  trade ;  then  a  taste  of  teach- 
ing, and  finally,  at  twenty,  an  adventure  with 
running  a  newspaper.  In  these  external  condi- 
tions, his  life  had  grown  more  frankly  experi- 
mental with  each  year.  Yet  beneath  its  shifting 
and  tentative  cover  of  circumstance  a  definite 
personality  is  plainly  to  be  traced.  This  dark- 
haired,  pleasant-faced  youth,  compacted  of  Dutch 
calm  and  English  vigor,  had  a  mind  and  will  of 
his  own.  Tremulously  sensitive  to  the  beauty  of 
the  out-door  world,  with  a  romantic  nature  which 
already  reveled  in  the  old  faery  realm  of  poetry 
and  imagination,  he  had  lived  even  in  boyhood 
a  full  emotional  life.  There  were  some  evidences, 
probably  unsuspected  by  himself,  of  a  neurotic 
tendency.  "  He  was  a  very  good,  but  very 
strange  boy,"  said  his  mother  afterward  to 
Colonel  Norton.  "  The  time  of  my  boyhood  was 
a  very  restless  and  unha.ppy  one ;  I  did  not 
know  what  to  do,"  he  said  once  to  Grace  Gil- 
christ.  This  is  perhaps  nothing  more  than  the 
usual  restlessness  of  adolescence.  Yet  the  story 
which  Whitman  told  to  Mrs.  Anne  Gilchrist 
about  the  extreme  nervous  terror  into  which  he 
was  thrown,  in  boyhood,  by  the  sight  of  a  man 
falling  from  a  hayrick  —  "I  ran  miles  away  " 
—  indicates  an  excess  of  emotional  endowment, 


20  WALT  WHITMAN 

to  which  the  tragic  fate  of  his  oldest  and  young- 
est brothers  gives  significance.  It  was  a  fortu- 
nate instinct  that  drove  him  so  early  into  the 
open  air  and  into  contact  with  self-contained, 
strong-muscled  men.  With  something  of  the 
innate  selfishness  of  a  born  sentimentalist,  he 
was  nevertheless  a  loving  son  and  an  affectionate 
brother.  He  was  fond  of  persons  and  places  and 
the  wholesome  common  experiences.  Of  formal 
education  and  training  he  had  almost  as  little  as 
the  young  Ulysses ;  but  like  him  he  had  self- 
command,  shrewdness,  patience,  and  many  a 
blind  desire  in  his  pagan  heart.  So  he  went  forth, 
and  he  was  to  go  very  far. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  CARESSER  OF  LIFE 

"  In  me  the  caresser  of  life  wherever  moving." 
Leaves  of  Grass. 

IN  one  of  the  random,  undated  scraps  of  writing 
which  Whitman's  literary  executors  have  pub- 
lished with  such  pious  care,  occurs  this  memoran- 
dum for  a  future  poem  :  "  A  Poem  —  Theme. 
Be  Happy.  Going  forth,  seeing  all  the  beau- 
tiful perfect  things."  These  words  suggest  the 
motif  of  more  than  one  of  his  productions,  and 
they  may  serve  to  indicate  the  spirit  of  blissful 
vagrancy  which  dominated  his  early  manhood. 
As  we  have  seen,  he  had  learned  the  printer's 
trade.  Like  any  medieval  apprentice  enjoying 
his  Wanderjahre,  he  could  find  employment 
when  he  was  pleased  to  do  so.  Though  not  gifted 
with  manual  quickness  or  dexterity,  he  could 
perform  farm  work  if  necessary,  and  was  capa- 
ble, after  a  fashion,  of  handling  carpenter's 
tools.  With  this  equipment  for  earning  a  living, 
he  was  quite  content.  He  was  economically  in- 
dependent. To  give  any  hostages  to  fortune  by 
assuming  social  responsibilities  was  not  in  his 


22  WALT  WHITMAN 

plan.  Indeed,  it  is  impossible  to  find  any  traces 
of  settled  plan  in  Whitman's  career  until  he  was 
well  along  in  the  thirties.  Certain  deep  instincts 
had  their  way  with  him,  and  persistent  traits  of 
character  are  revealed  throughout  the  casual  ex- 
periences of  his  curiously  prolonged  youth.  But 
conscious  purpose  there  was  none,  except  to 
gratify  that  "  pure  organic  pleasure  "  which  the 
young  Wordsworth  tells  us  that  he  drank  in,  even 
at  the  age  of  ten,  from  "  beauty  old  as  creation." 
And  with  Walt  Whitman,  as  with  Wordsworth, 
there  was  the  parallel  though  slowly-shaping  im- 
pulse toward  some  form  of  literary  expression. 

As  might  have  been  expected,  the  youthful 
editor  of  The  Long  Islander  grew  weary  of  his 
country  weekly  after  a  year  or  two,  and  his  finan- 
cial backers  were  equally  weary  of  him.  He 
drifted  back  to  New  York.  Here,  in  1841,  he 
became  editor  of  The  Daily  Aurora,  an  organ 
of  the  Tyler  administration.  One  of  his  associ- 
ates has  pictured  him,  not  without  vividness.1 
Whitman  had  at  twenty-two  the  look  of  a  man 
of  twenty-five,  "  tall  and  graceful  in  appearance, 
neat  in  attire,  and  possessed  a  very  pleasing  and 
impressive  eye  and  a  cheerful,  happy-looking 
countenance.  He  usually  wore  a  frock  coat  and 
a  high  hat,  carried  a  small  cane,  and  the  lapel 

1  William  Cauldwell,  in  tL«  New  York  Times.  Quoted  in 
The  Conservator,  July,  1901. 


THE  CARESSER  OF  LIFE  23 

of  his  coat  was  almost  invariably  ornamented 
with  a  boutonniere.  .  .  .  After  he  looked  over 
the  daily  and  exchange  papers  (reaching  the  den 
he  occupied  usually  between  11  and  12  o'clock), 
it  was  Mr.  Whitman's  daily  habit  to  stroll  down 
Broadway  to  the  Battery,  spending  an  hour  or 
two  amid  the  trees  and  enjoying  the  water  view, 
returning  to  the  office  location  at  about  2  or  3 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon."  Unluckily,  the  senior 
proprietor  of  the  Aurora,  who  thought  Whit- 
man "the  laziest  fellow  who  ever  undertook  to 
edit  a  city  paper,"  differed  with  him  upon  a 
point  of  editorial  policy,  and  the  engagement 
came  to  an  end. 

But  the  personable  Mr.  Walter  Whitman, 
with  his  high  hat  and  light  cane  and  boutonniere, 
was  not  easily  cast  down.  He  was  already  writ- 
ing regularly  for  the  Tattler,  an  evening  paper. 
What  was  of  far  more  consequence,  he  was 
proving  an  acceptable  contributor  to  the  Demo- 
cratic Review,  at  that  time  the  foremost  literary 
journal  published  in  New  York.  Hawthorne, 
Bryant,  Longfellow,  Lowell,  Thoreau,  Whittier 
and  Poe  were  writing  for  it.  Whitman  appeared, 
not  as  a  verse-writer,  but  as  a  story-teller.  His  first 
contribution,  apparently,  was  a  sketch,  "Death 
in  the  School-Room"  (August,  1841).  This 
was  followed  by  "  Wild  Frank's  Return  "  (No- 
vember, 1841),  and  "  Bervance ;  or  Father  and 


24  WALT  WHITMAN 

Son  "  (December,  1841),  in  a  number  which  also 
contained  signed  contributions  from  Bryant, 
Whittier,  and  Longfellow.  Then  came  "The 
Tomb-Blossoms  "  (January,  1842),  "  The  Last 
of  the  Sacred  Army"  (March,  1842),  "The 
Child-Ghost;  a  Story  of  the  Last  Loyalist" 
(May,  1842),  and  a  sketch  called  "  The  Angel 
of  Tears"  (September,  1842),  which  is  chiefly 
interesting  as  proving  how  very  neatly  the  young 
journalist  could  play,  if  need  be,  upon  the  flute 
of  Edgar  Allan  Poe.  A  few  lines  will  serve  :  — 

"  High,  high  in  space  floated  the  angel  Alza. 
Of  the  spirits  who  minister  in  heaven  Alza  is 
not  the  chief;  neither  is  he  employed  in  deeds 
of  great  import,  or  in  the  destinies  of  worlds 
and  generations.  Yet  if  it  were  possible  for 
envy  to  enter  among  the  Creatures  Beautiful, 
many  would  have  pined  for  the  station  of  Alza. 
There  are  a  million,  million  invisible  eyes  which 
keep  constant  watch  over  the  earth  —  each 
Child  of  Light  having  his  separate  duty.  Alza 
is  one  of  the  Angels  of  Tears." 

For  nearly  three  years  thereafter  nothing  trace- 
able to  Whitman  appeared  in  the  Democratic 
Review.  But  in  August,  1845,  he  published  a 
story,  "  Kevenge  and  Requital :  a  Tale  of  a 
Murderer  Escaped,"  which  now  appears  in  his 
Prose  Works  under  the  title  "One  Wicked 
Impulse." 


THE  CARESSER  OF  LIFE  25 

Whittier's  "  The  Shoemaker  "  —  one  of  the 
Songs  of  Labor  series  in  which  he  anticipated 
Whitman  by  ten  years  in  chanting  the  praises 
of  the  American  workingrnan  —  was  printed  in 
the  same  issue.  In  November  appeared  Whit- 
man's "  Dialogue  "  against  Capital  Punishment, 
in  which  the  interlocutors  are  The  Majesty  of 
the  People  and  A  Shivering  Convict.  "  Strangle 
and  Kill  in  the  name  of  God !  O  Bible !  what 
follies  and  monstrous  barbarities  are  defended 
in  thy  name!"  Lowell  had  already  taken  the 
same  position,  his  sonnets  "  On  Reading  Words- 
worth's Sonnets  in  Defence  of  Capital  Punish- 
ment "  having  been  published  in  the  Democratic 
Review  in  May,  1842.  The  "  Dialogue "  was 
Whitman's  last  signed  contribution  to  the  Re- 
view,  although  its  thrifty  editor  reprinted  "  The 
Last  of  the  Sacred  Army,"  unsigned,  in  Novem- 
ber, 1851,  in  spite  of  its  previous  appearance, 
over  the  signature  of  Walter  Whitman,  in  1842. 
In  September,  1855,  as  will  be  seen  later,  the 
Review  honored  its  old  contributor  by  allowing 
him  to  write  an  anonymous  and  highly  favorable 
notice  of  his  own  Leaves  of  Grass.1 

Several  contributions   by  Whitman  may   be 

1  Of  the  sketches  appearing  in  the  Democratic  Review,  four 
("  Death  in  the  School-Room,"  "  Wild  Frank's  Return,"  "  The 
Last  Loyalist,"  and  "  One  Wicked  Impulse  ")  are  given  iu  the 
Prose  Works.  The  others  remain  uncollected. 


26  WALT  WHITMAN 

found  in  the  files  of  Brother  Jonathan,  a  New 
York  weekly  which  flourished  during  1842  and 
1843.  On  July  9,  1842,  it  reprinted  a  thin  little 
tale,  "  A  Legend  of  Life  and  Love,"  crediting  it 
to  "  Walter  Whitman  in  The  Democratic  Mag- 
azine." 1  A  more  interesting  contribution  was 
Whitman's  letter  of  February  26,  1842,  defend- 
ing Dickens  —  who  was  then  making  his  first 
American  tour  —  from  an  attack  which  had  ap- 
peared in  the  Washington  Globe.  Under  the 
title  "  Boz  and  Democracy  "  Whitman  declares : 

"  A  '  democratic  writer,'  I  take  it,  is  one,  the 
tendency  of  whose  pages  is  to  destroy  those  old 
landmarks  which  pride  and  fashion  have  set  up, 
making  impassable  distinctions  between  brethren 
of  the  Great  Family.  ...  I  consider  Mr.  Dickens 
to  be  a  democratic  writer.  The  familiarity  with 
low  life  wherein  Mr.  Dickens  places  his  readers 
is  a  wholesome  familiarity.  ...  I  cannot  lose 
the  opportunity  of  saying  how  much  I  love  and 
esteem  him  for  what  he  has  taught  me  through 
his  writings." 

The  first  volume  of  the  American  Review 
(Wiley  and  Putnam,  N.  Y.,  1845)  contained  two 
tales  by  Whitman  :  "  The  Boy  Lover  "  2  (May) 
and  "  The  Death  of  Wind-foot "  (June).  "  My 
serious  wish,"  he  wrote  very  sensibly  in  later  life, 

1  I  do  not  find  this  in  the  Democratic  Review. 

2  Now  in  the  Prose  Works. 


THE  CARESSER  OF  LIFE  27 

"  were  to  have  all  those  crude  and  boyish  pieces 
quietly  dropp'd  in  oblivion."  But  the  zeal  of  col- 
lectors forbids  this,  and  it  is  probable  that  the 
files  of  New  York  periodicals  during  the  forties 
will  yield  other  fugitive  compositions  by  Whit- 
man, both  in  prose  and  verse.1 

Once  he  tried  his  hand  at  a  novel,  which  was 
published  in  November,  1842,  as  a  single  issue 
of  the  New  World,  a  weekly  story-paper  edited 
by  Park  Benjamin.  It  was  announced  as  follows : 
44  Friends  of  Temperance  Ahoy !  Franklin 
Evans  ;  or  The  Inebriate :  A  Tale  of  the  Times. 
By  a  popular  American  author.  This  novel, 
which  is  dedicated  to  the  Temperance  Societies 
and  the  friends  of  the  temperance  cause  through- 
out the  United  States,  will  create  a  sensation, 
both  for  the  ability  with  which  it  is  written,  as 
well  as  the  interest  of  the  subject,  and  will  be 
universally  read  and  admired.  It  was  written 
expressly  for  the  New  World,  by  one  of  the  best 
novelists  in  this  country,  with  a  view  to  aid  the 
great  work  of  reform,  and  rescue  young  men 
from  the  demon  of  Intemperance.  The  incidents 
of  the  plot  are  wrought  out  with  great  effect, 
and  the  excellence  of  its  moral  and  the  beneficial 

1  I  have  been  unable  to  find  the  date  or  original  place  of 
publication  of  "  The  Child  and  the  Profligate,"  "  Lingave'a 
Temptation,"  "  Little  Jane  "  and  "  Dumb  Kate,"  which  ap- 
pear in  the  Prose  Works.  (See  Appendix.) 


28  WALT  WHITMAN 

effect  it  will  have  should  interest  the  friends  of 
the  Temperance  Reformation  in  giving  the  Tale 
the  widest  possible  circulation." 

It  is  to  be  feared  that  the  friends  of  the  Tem- 
perance Reformation  might  have  been  pained  if 
they  had  detected  their  novelist  in  the  act  of 
composition.  "He  wrote  it,'*  says  a  lifelong 
acquaintance,1  '*  mostly  in  the  reading  room  of 
Tammany  Hall,  which  was  a  sort  of  Bohemian 
resort,  and  he  afterward  told  me  that  he  fre- 
quently indulged  in  gin  cocktails  while  writing 
it,  at  the  '  Pewter  Mug/  another  resort  for  Bo- 
hemians around  the  corner  in  Spruce  Street." 2 
When  the  old  poet  was  near  his  death,  he  was 
told  by  an  admirer  that  he  had  been  searching 
far  and  wide  for  a  copy  of  Franklin  Evans. 
Whitman  replied  fervently  that  he  "  hoped  to 
God  "  that  the  search  would  remain  unsuccessful. 

In  truth  none  of  Whitman's  early  prose  pos- 
sesses any  high  degree  of  literary  merit.  But  it 
is  marked  by  a  strong  ethical  sense  and  especially 
by  sympathy  with  the  poor  and  suffering. 
Though  feeble  in  construction  and  weakened  by 
that  tendency  to  the  lachrymose  and  the  melo- 

1  J.  Q.  Schumaker,  Esq.,  in  New  York  Tribune,  April  4, 
1892. 

2  It  should  be  added  that  this  friend  states  explicitly:  "  In 
all  my  long  acquaintance  with  Walter  I  never  heard  him  make 
use  of  a  profane  or  indecent  word.   He  was  always  the  gentle- 


THE  CARESSER  OF  LIFE  29 

dramatic  which  few  American  tales  of  1840—1850 
managed  to  escape,  his  stories  show  a  hatred  of 
cruelty  and  injustice,  and  a  right-mindedness 
toward  the  common  people,  which  makes  them 
interesting  indications  of  what  was  going  on  in 
Whitman's  mind.  Poe  is  the  only  contemporary 
whose  style  he  seems  to  imitate.  "  One  Wicked 
Impulse  "  and  "  The  Child  and  the  Profligate  " 
are  perhaps  the  most  characteristic  productions, 
but  compared  with  the  vigorous  pages  of  Whit- 
man's later  prose  the  best  of  this  earlier  sort 
are  but  shadows. 

Readers  naturally  turn  to  his  earliest  verse 
for  some  hint  of  the  extraordinary  manner  which 
was  afterward  revealed  in  Leaves  of  Grass. 
But  there  is  little,  if  anything,  which  points  that 
way.  In  the  Appendix  to  the  Prose  Works  four 
of  these  early  poems  are  given.  The  "  Dough- 
Face  Song,"  signed  "  Paumanok,"  and  origin- 
ally appearing,  Whitman  says,  in  the  New  York 
Evening  Post*  consists  of  twelve  six-line  stanzas 
of  brisk  political  satire,  cleverly  rhymed. 

"  We  do  not  ask  a  bold  brave  front; 

We  never  try  that  game  ; 
'T  would  bring  the  storm  upon  our  heads, 

A  huge  mad  storm  of  shame  ; 
Evade  it,  brothers  — '  compromise  * 

Will  answer  just  the  same." 

1  The  precise  date  is  unknown.   From  the  political  refer* 
ences  in  the  poem,  it  was  probably  written  in  1848. 


30  WALT  WHITMAN 

With  this  poem,  as  examples  of  the  con- 
ventional versification  which  Whitman  at  first 
adopted,  belong  two  poems  from  Brother  Jona- 
than which  he  did  not  see  fit  to  reprint.  The  first 
appeared  on  January  29,  1842,  and  is  entitled 
'*  Ambition."  It  opens  with  eleven  lines  of  correct 
blank  verse,  describing  the  somewhat  familiar 
figure  of  a  solitary  young  man  who  asks  himself, 

"  Shall  I,  in  time  to  come,  be  great  and  famed  ?  " 

To  this  question  a  cloud-formed  shape  makes 
answer,  in  nine  quatrains,  two  of  which  may 
stand  for  all:  — 

"  At  night,  go  view  the  solemn  stars 

Those  wheeling  worlds  through  time  the  same, 

How  puny  seem  the  widest  power, 

The  proudest  mortal  name  I 

Think  too,  that  all,  lowly  and  rich, 
Dull  idiot  mind  and  teeming  sense, 
Alike  must  sleep  the  endless  sleep, 
A  hundred  seasons  hence." 

Then,  in  six  more  lines  of  good  blank  verse 
and  commonplace  philosophising  the  poem  is 
brought  to  a  conclusion.  A  few  weeks  later  the 
editor  of  Brother  Jonathan  printed  a  second 
poem  by  Walter  Whitman,  "  Death  of  the 
Nature-Lover,"  accompanied  by  this  prefatory 
note:  "The  following  wants  but  a  half -hour's 
polish  to  make  of  it  an  effusion  of  very  un- 


THE  CARESSER  OF  LIFE  31 

common   beauty. —  Ed."  The   first   two  of  the 
eight  stanzas  run  thus:  — 

"  Not  in  a  gorgeous  hall  of  pride 

Where  tears  fall  thick,  and  loved  ones  sigh, 

Wished  he,  when  the  dark  hour  approach'd, 
To  drop  his  veil  of  flesh  and  die. 

"Amid  the  thunder-crash  of  strife, 

Where  hovers  War's  ensanguined  cloud, 

And  bright  swords  flash  and  banners  fly 
Above  the  wounds  and  groans  and  blood." 

The  significance  of  such  productions  lies  not 
so  much  in  their  intrinsic  value,  as  in  the  evi- 
dence they  afford  of  "Whitman's  mastery  of  the 
usual  measures  of  English  poetry.  Critics  of 
Leaves  of  Grass  have  frequently  asserted  that 
its  author,  finding  himself  incompetent  to  write  in 
metre  and  rhyme,  hit  upon  a  mode  of  expression 
which  would  hide  his  weakness  as  a  craftsman. 
But  here  he  is  at  twenty-three,  writing,  both  in 
blank  verse  and  rhyme,  poems  that  may  fairly 
be  compared  with  the  average  contributions 
of  Lowell,  N.  P.  Willis,  and  Whittier  to  the 
periodicals  of  the  early  forties. 

Of  the  three  remaining  poems  preserved  in  the 
Prose  Works,  "  Sailing  the  Mississippi  at  Mid- 
night," written  in  1848  or  later,  is  in  conven- 
tional but  jerky  quatrains.  "  Wounded  in  the 
House  of  Friends,"  a  political  piece  with  a  motto 
from  the  prophet  Zechariah,  reads  like  the  dis- 


32  WALT  WHITMAN 

integrated  blank  verse  of  the  later  Elizabethan 
or  Jacobean  dramatists.  Here  is  evidently  a 
striving  for  greater  freedom  than  the  regular 
ten-syllabled  verse  affords,  yet  it  is  a  decadent 
measure,  looking  backward  rather  than  forward. 
For  a  hint  of  any  new  rhythmical  design  we 
must  turn  rather  to  "  Blood -Money,"  a  passion- 
ate anti-slavery  poem,  with  the  motto  "  Guilty 
of  the  body  and  the  blood  of  Christ." 

I 

Of  olden  time,  when  it  came  to  pass 
That  the  beautiful  God,  Jesus,  should  finish  his  work  on 

earth, 

Then  went  Judas,  and  sold  the  divine  youth, 
And  took  pay  for  his  body. 

Curs'd  was  the  deed,  even  before  the  sweat  of  the  clutch- 
ing hand  grew  dry  ; 

And  darkness  frown'd  upon  the  seller  of  the  like  of  God, 
Where,  as  though  earth  lifted  her  breast  to  throw  him 

from  her,  and  heaven  refused  him, 
He  hung  in  the  air,  self-slaughter'd. 

The  cycles,  with  their  long  shadows,  have  stalked  silently 

forward, 
Since  those   ancient  days  —  many  a  pouch  enwrapping 

meanwhile 
Its  fee,  like  that  paid  for  the  son  of  Mary. 

And  still  goes  one,  saying, 

"  What  will  ye  give  me,  and  I  will  deliver  this  man  unto 

you?" 
And  they  make  the  covenant,  and  pay  the  pieces  of  silver. 


THE  CARESSER  OF  LIFE  33 

II 

Look  forth,  deliverer, 

Look  forth,  first-born  of  the  dead, 

Over  the  tree-tops  of  paradise  ; 

See  thyself  in  yet  continued  bonds, 

Toilsome  and  poor,  thou  bear'st  man's  form  again, 

Thou  art  reviled,  scourged,  put  into  prison, 

Hunted  from  the  arrogant  equality  of  the  rest ; 

With  staves  and  swords  throng  the  willing  servants  of 
authority, 

Again  they  surround  thee,  mad  with  devilish  spite  ; 

Toward  thee  stretch  the  hands  of  a  multitude,  like  vul- 
tures' talons, 

The  meanest  spit  in  thy  face,  they  smite  thee  with  their 
palms  ; 

Bruised,  bloody  and  pinion'd  is  thy  body, 

More  sorrowful  than  death  is  thy  soul. 

Witness  of  anguish,  brother  of  slaves, 

Not  with  thy  price  closed  the  price  of  thine  image  : 

And  still  Iscariot  plies  his  trade.1 

1  In  the  Prose  Works  this  poem  is  dated  April,  1843,  and 
signed  "Paumanok."  Whitman  elsewhere  states  (Prose 
Works,  p.  196)  that  it  first  appeared  in  the  New  York  Tribune. 
But  I  have  before  me  an  envelope  endorsed  in  Whitman's 
handwriting1,  —  "  Blood-Money  (must  have  been  pub.  about 
1852  -  or  '3),"  and  containing  this  poem,  clipped  from  the 
New  York  Evening  Post,  and  signed,  not  "Paumanok"  but 
"  Walter  Whitman."  Furthermore,  this  Post  clipping  has  evi- 
dently been  used  as  printer's  "  copy  "  for  the  Prose  Works  ver- 
sion, since  in  the  sixth  line  it  reads  "the  seller  of  a  Son  of  God," 
•which  has  been  altered  in  pencil  by  Whitman  to  "  the  seller  of 
the  like  of  God,"  the  reading  which  is  found  in  the  received 
text  of  the  poem.  It  would  be  interesting  to  know  the  date  of 
the  actual  first  publication.  I  have  been  unable  to  find  it 


34  WALT  WHITMAN 

Whitman's  early  productions  are  chiefly  signifi- 
cant, after  all,  as  proving  how  slowly  he  was 
finding  or  fashioning  his  distinctive  note  as  a 
writer.  But  writing  was  itself  only  an  incident 
in  a  life  crowded  with  sights  and  experiences 
that  stirred  the  healthy  young  Long  Islander 
with  an  intoxicating  sense  of  variety  and  free- 
dom. No  reader  of  his  Specimen  Days*  can 
fail  to  share  the  glow  of  enthusiasm  with  which 
he  portrays  the  glories  of  Broadway,  the  ferry 
boats  hurrying  through  one  of  the  most  pictur- 
esque harbors  in  the  world,  and  the  famous  omni- 
buses that  used  to  ply  up  and  down  New  York's 
central  thoroughfare,  guided  by  the  "  quick-eyed 
and  wondrous  race  "  of  drivers. 

London  or  Paris  never  produced  a  more  gen- 
uine offspring  of  the  pavements  than  the  coun- 
try-bred Walt  Whitman.  He  drank  in  the  spec- 
tacle like  a  spellbound  child.  Hour  after  hour, 
day  after  day,  year  in  and  year  out,  he  sat  in 
the  pilot  houses  of  the  ferry  boats,  with  pilot 
friends  whom  he  recalls  lovingly  by  name,  "  ab- 
sorbing shows,  accompaniments,  surroundings." 
His  seat  was  quite  as  likely  to  be  by  the  side  of 
some  ready-tongued  driver  of  a  Yellowbird  or 
Redbird  omnibus,  a  driver  like  Broadway  Jack, 
Pop  Rice,  Balky  Bill,  or  Pete  Callahan.  Upon 
the  sidewalk  he  saw  the  celebrities  of  the  period : 

1  See  particularly,  Specimen  Days,  pp.  11-14. 


THE  CARESSER  OF  LIFE  35 

Andrew  Jackson,  Daniel  Webster,  Henry  Clay, 
Walker  the  filibuster.  Or  it  might  be  the  Prince 
of  Wales,  Charles  Dickens,  or,  a  little  later,  the 
first  ambassadors  from  Japan.  He  watched  James 
Fenimore  Cooper  in  a  courtroom,  and  called  at  the 
Broadway  Journal  office  to  see  its  editor,  Edgar 
Allan  Poe,  about  a  piece  of  Whitman's  which  Poe 
—  "  very  kindly  and  human,  but  subdued,  per- 
haps a  little  jaded"  —  had  recently  published.1 

Such  an  enraptured  gazer  at  the  human  pro- 
cession could  not  fail  to  be  fascinated  by  the 
theatre.  At  the  old  Park  Theatre,  and  the  Bow- 
ery, the  Broadway  and  Chatham  Square  theatres, 
he  saw  Henry  Placide  and  Fanny  Kemble,  Sher- 
idan Knowles,  Ellen  Tree,  the  younger  Kean, 
Macready,  the  elder  Booth,  Forrest,  Charlotte 
Cushman,  and  many  another  king  and  queen  of 
the  footlights.  In  these  years  he  heard  all  the 
Italian  operas  then  in  vogue,  as  rendered  by 
such  singers  as  Alboni,  Grisi,  and  Mario.  As  a 
newspaper  man,  Whitman's  name  was  on  the 
free  list  of  the  theatres,  and  the  boyish  passion, 
for  declamation  and  lyricism,  which  had  so  re- 
stricted a  field  in  the  country  debating  societies, 
now  thrilled  his  big  sensuous  body  and  set  his 
soul  in  a  tumult. 

As  he  rode  up  or  down  the  Bowery  with  Balky 
Bill  and  Pete  Callahan  he  would  "  declaim  some 

1  See  Appendix. 


36       .  WALT  WHITMAN 

stormy  passage  from  Julius  Ccesar  or  Richard 
(you  could  roar  as  loudly  as  you  chose  in 
that  heavy,  dense,  uninterrupted  street-bass)." 
Sometimes  these  declamations  had  a  far  different 
accompaniment,  for  in  mild  weather  Whitman 
went  regularly  each  month  to  Coney  Island,  u  at 
that  time  a  long,  bare,  unfrequented  shore,  which 
I  had  all  to  myself,  and  where  I  loved  after  bath- 
ing, to  race  up  and  down  the  hard  sand,  and 
declaim  Homer  or  Shakspere  to  the  surf  and  sea- 
gulls by  the  hour." 

While  contact  with  many  varieties  of  human 
nature  was  moulding  Whitman's  sympathies,  his 
constant  attendance  upon  the  great  drama*  and 
operas  was  the  chief  contribution  to  his  aesthetic 
education.  These  singers  and  actors  were  to  have 
no  small  share  in  shaping  the  phrases  and 
rhythms  of  his  later  verse.  He  made  some  effort, 
also,  to  become  acquainted  with  the  classics  of 
literature.  Although  the  deficiencies  of  his  boy- 
hood education  left  him  deaf  to  the  meaning  of 
all  languages  but  English,  one  who  had  learned 
to  love  Sir  Walter  Scott  and  the  Arabian 
Nights  was  bound  to  explore  some  of  the  en- 
chanted lands  of  poetry.  His  adventures  are  best 
told  in  his  own  words. 

"  At  intervals,  summers  and  falls,  I  used  to 
go  off,  sometimes  for  a  week  at  a  stretch,  down 
in  the  country,  or  to  Long  Island's  seashores  — 


THE  CARESSER  OF  LIFE  37 

there,  in  the  presence  of  outdoor  influences,  I 
went  over  thoroughly  the  Old  and  New  Testa- 
ments, and  absorb'd  (probably  to  better  advan- 
tage for  me  than  in  any  library  or  indoor  room 
—  it  makes  such  difference  where  you  read,) 
Shakspere,  Ossian,  the  best  translated  versions 
I  could  get  of  Homer,  Eschylus,  Sophocles,  the 
old  German  Nibelungen,  the  ancient  Hindoo 
poems,  and  one  or  two  other  masterpieces, 
Dante's  among  them.  As  it  happen'd,  I  read 
the  latter  mostly  in  an  old  wood.  The  Iliad 
(Buckley's  prose  version)  I  read  first  thoroughly 
on  the  peninsula  of  Orient,  northeast  end  of 
Long  Island,  in  a  shelter'd  hollow  of  rocks  and 
sand,  with  the  sea  on  each  side.  (I  have  won- 
dered since  why  I  was  not  overwhelm'd  by  those 
mighty  masters.  Likely  because  I  read  them,  as 
described,  in  the  full  presence  of  Nature,  under 
the  sun,  with  the  far-spreading  landscape  and 
vistas,  or  the  sea  rolling  in.)  "  1 

To  represent  Whitman,  however,  either  at  this 
time  or  at  any  later  period,  as  a  systematic  student 
of  books  would  be  misleading.  His  methods  of 
reading  were  mainly  casual  and  impressionistic, 
and  he  gave  to  newspapers  and  magazines  the 
greater  portion  of  his  attention.  He  read  widely 
in  the  periodical  field,  clipped  or  tore  out  what 
he  liked  best,  and  often  made  marginal  com- 
l  "  A  Backward  Glance,"  in  Leaves  of  Grass,  p.  441. 


38  WALT  WHITMAN 

ments  upon  it.  "  I  discover  that  I  need  a  thor- 
ough posting-up  in  what  Rome  and  the  Romans 
were,"  is  one  of  these  annotations.  His  interest 
in  Oriental  history  was  stimulated  by  frequent 
visits  to  a  New  York  museum  of  Egyptian  anti- 
quities. Indeed,  he  went  anywhere  and  every- 
where that  his  curiosity  led  him.  He  frequented 
shops  and  factories  to  talk  with  the  workmen  ; 
a  habit  which  he  shared,  by  the  way,  with  his 
noted  townsman,  Henry  Ward  Beecher.  Though 
no  church-goer,  he  liked  the  oratory  of  Beecher 
and  other  divines,  and  would  sit  under  them  upon 
occasion.  He  listened  admiringly  to  Wendell 
Phillips,  Garrison,  John  P.  Hale,  and  other  anti- 
slavery  speakers.  In  the  later  phases  of  his 
political  sympathies,  he  went  on  the  stump  for 
Polk,  as  he  had  for  Van  Buren,  and  he  is  said 
to  have  been  a  delegate  to  the  Convention  of  Free 
Soilers  in  Buffalo  in  August,  1848.  He  min- 
gled freely  in  many  sorts  of  social  gatherings  in 
Brooklyn  and  New  York.  "I  have  been  with 
him  often  in  the  society  of  ladies,"  testifies  Mr. 
Schumaker,1  "  and  I  never  knew  of  any  woman, 
young  or  old,  but  thought  him  a  most  agreeable 
gentleman  of  great  culture."  So  thought  the 
habitues  of  PfafFs  famous  restaurant  on  Broad- 
way, where  Mr.  Whitman  enjoyed  for  a  while  the 
amiable  distinction  of  being  the  only  member  of 

1  The  New  York  Tribune,  April  4,  1892,  as  cited  above. 


THE  CARESSER  OF  LIFE  39 

that  Bohemian  circle  who  was  u  never  tipsy  and 
never  broke."  At  a  later  period  he  did,  indeed, 
borrow  from  his  literary  friends  at  PfafF  s,  but 
he  took,  as  he  gave,  with  a  royal  ease  that  still 
delights  the  memory  of  some  of  his  surviving 
creditors.  There  was  something  in  his  bland, 
leisurely,  magnetic  presence,  even  then,  that 
made  for  companionship ;  and  with  almost  any 
men  and  women  he  was  ready  to  fleet  the  time 
carelessly  as  in  the  golden  world.  His  faithful 
friend,  John  Burroughs,  writing  his  Notes  on 
Walt  Whitman  as  Poet  and  Person,  in  1867, 
judged  it  discreet  to  say :  u  Through  this  period 
(1840-1855),  without  entering  into  particulars, 
it  is  enough  to  say  that  he  sounded  all  experi- 
ences of  life,  with  all  their  passions,  pleasures 
and  abandonments.  He  was  young,  in  perfect 
bodily  condition,  and  had  the  city  of  New  York 
and  its  ample  opportunities  around  him.  I  trace 
this  period  in  some  of  the  poems  of  '  Children 
of  Adam '  and  occasionally  in  other  parts  of  his 
book,  including  '  Calamus.'  " 

Endless  leisureliness,  curiosity,  tolerance,  mark 
these  dateless  years  in  New  York.  The  record  of 
them  is  now  written  iueffaceably  in  Whitman's 
verse,  but  there  are  no  data  for  following  his 
fortunes  month  by  month,  or  scarcely  year  by 
year.  "  Weeks  grew  months,  years,"  as  they  did 
in  Browning's  "  Statue  and  the  Bust,"  but  the 


40  WALT  WHITMAN 

sense  of  brave  adventure  and  the  secret  glories 
of  a  youthful  heart  did  not  fade. 

At  twenty-seven  or  twenty-eight — the  precise 
date  is  uncertain  —  Whitman  became  editor  of 
the  Brooklyn  Eagle.  The  Eagle  was  a  daily  of 
four  small  pages  only,  and  the  editor's  responsi- 
bilities were  not  arduous.  Whitman  lived  with 
his  father  and  mother,  on  Myrtle  Street,  in  a 
little  wooden  house  still  standing.  He  used  to 
stroll  very  slowly  —  as  was  his  life-long  habit 
—  from  his  home  to  the  office,  which  was  near 
Fulton  Ferry,  a  mile  and  a  half  away.  He  left 
his  desk  almost  every  afternoon  for  another  stroll 
or  a  swim,  frequently  taking  some  journeyman 
printer  from  the  composing-room  as  his  compan- 
ion. One  of  his  successors l  upon  the  staff  of  the 
Eagle  has  given  a  pleasant  account  of  his  edito- 
rials. They  have  the  usual  unpent  freedom  of 
the  village  newspaper;  passing  from  praise  of 
fresh  air,  bathing  and  exercise,  to  attacks  upon 
capital  punishment,  slavery,  dueling,  and  the 
war  spirit.  They  describe  a  visit  to  ships  just  an- 
chored in  the  East  River,  or  they  voice  a  distrust 
of  trade  unions.  Everywhere  they  exhibit  a  com- 
mendable local  pride,  a  strong  national  senti- 
ment and  a  wholesome  sympathy  for  the  rights 
of  the  common  man.  The  style  is  slovenly,  and  the 

1  C.  M.  Skinner,  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly  for  November, 
1903. 


THE  CARESSER  OF  LIFE  41 

thought  quite  without  distinction.  As  a  spokes- 
man of  Democratic  politics  Whitman  possessed 
a  good-natured  honesty  rather  than  any  partisan 
fire,  and  after  being  "pretty  handsomely  beaten" 
by  the  Whigs  in  a  city  election,  he  announces 
serenely  that  the  first  and  largest  reason  for  the 
defeat  "  is  that  we  did  n't  get  enough  votes  by  a 
long  shot !  " 

This  connection  with  the  Eagle  lasted  through- 
out the  year  1847,  but  early  in  1848  he  made  a 
memorable  shift.  The  occasion  for  it  is  best  de- 
scribed in  his  own  words.1  "  For  two  years  (as 
editor  of  the  Eagle)  I  had  one  of  the  pleasant- 
est  sits  of  my  life  —  a  good  owner,  good  pay, 
and  easy  work  and  hours  (it  came  out  about 
three  every  afternoon).  The  troubles  in  the 
Democratic  party  broke  forth  about  those  times 
(1848-49),  and  I  split  off  with  the  Radicals, 
which  led  to  rows  with  the  boss  and  'the  party' 
and  I  lost  my  place.  Being  now  out  of  a  job,  I 
was  offered  impromptu  (it  happened  between 
the  acts  one  night  in  the  lobby  of  the  old  Broad- 
way Theatre,  near  Pearl  Street,  New  York  city) 
a  good  chance  to  go  down  to  New  Orleans  on 
the  staff  of  the  Crescent,  a  daily  to  be  started 
there  with  plenty  of  capital  behind  it,  in  oppo- 
sition to  the  Picayune.  One  of  the  owners,  Mr. 
McClure,  who  was  North  buying  material,  met 

1  In  the  first  number  of  the  Camden,  N.  J.,  Courier. 


42  WALT  WHITMAN 

me  walking  in  the  lobby,  and  though  that  was 
our  first  acquaintance,  after  fifteen  minutes'  talk 
(and  a  drink)  we  made  a  formal  bargain,  and 
Mr.  McClure  paid  me  $200.  down  to  bind  the 
contract  and  bear  my  expenses  to  New  Orleans. 
I  started  two  days  afterward;  had  a  good  lei- 
surely time,  as  the  paper  was  n't  to  be  out  in 
three  or  four  weeks.  I  enjoyed  my  journey  and 
Louisiana  venture  very  much." 

His  companion  upon  the  journey  was  his 
favorite  brother  "  Jeff,"  then  fifteen  years  of 
age.  They  went  by  way  of  Pennsylvania  and 
Virginia,  crossing  the  Alleghenies,  and  taking 
a  steamer  down  the  Ohio  and  Mississippi  rivers. 
The  Mexican  war  had  just  closed,  and  New 
Orleans  was  full  of  the  bustle  and  color  of  re- 
turning soldiery.  In  the  St.  Charles  Theatre 
Whitman  had  a  chance  to  see  General  Taylor: 
"a  jovial,  old,  rather  stout,  plain  man,  with  a 
wrinkled  and  dark  yellow  face,"  who  reminded 
him  of  Fenimore  Cooper.  In  Whitman's  brief 
memoranda  of  his  New  Orleans  experiences 
his  editorial  labors  for  the  Crescent  have  no 
mention  except  that  the  situation  was  "  rather  a 
pleasant  one."  It  is  unlikely  that  they  were 
more  severe  than  those  upon  the  Aurora  and 
the  Eagle.  But  he  always  remembered  regret- 
fully the  old  French  markets  on  Sunday  morn- 
ings, where  a  great  mulatto  woman  used  to  give 


THE  CARESSER  OF  LIFE  43 

him  coffee  more  delicious  than  he  ever  drank 
afterwards.  He  lingers  affectionately,  and  with 
the  sensuousness  of  a  naive  nature,  upon  the 
"  exquisite  wines,"  "  the  perfect  and  mild  French 
brandy,"  and  the  "  splendid  and  roomy  and  lei- 
surely barrooms"  of  the  St.  Charles  and  St. 
Louis  hotels.  He  loved  to  wander  upon  the 
levees,  and  to  talk  with  the  boatmen.  Some- 
times, in  the  ceaseless  quest  for  new  sensations, 
he  went  on  Sundays  to  the  old  Catholic  Cathe^ 
dral  in  the  French  quarter,  a  district  where  he 
was  in  the  habit  of  promenading.  After  a  few 
months,  however,  "Jeff "  grew  homesick  and 
found  the  climate  unfavorable.  The  wandering 
brothers  took  passage  northward  by  a  Mississippi 
steamer,  and  made  a  roundabout  journey  home- 
ward by  way  of  Chicago  and  the  Great  Lakes, 
stopping  at  Niagara  Falls,  and  finally  reaching 
New  York  in  June.1 

Whitman  was  now  in  his  thirtieth  year.  The 
sojourn  in  the  South  and  the  glimpse  of  what 
was  then  the  West  widened  his  outlook  in  many 
ways,  and  confirmed  him  in  the  pride  of  Ameri- 
can nationality.  If  a  man  is  at  heart  a  nomad  it 
makes  little  difference  to  him  whether  he  wan- 
ders over  a  Concord  pasture,  returning  to  his 
home  at  nightfall,  or  gazes  upon  the  Father  of 
Waters  and  upon  our  vast  inland  seas.  But  for 
Whitman's  future  role  of  poetic  interpreter  of 

1  See  Appendix, 


44  WALT  WHITMAN 

American  life  in  its  totality,  the  long  journey 
away  from  Manhattan  and  Paumanok  was  sig- 
nificant. There  were  other  changes  in  him,  too, 
that  must  now  be  noticed,  —  new  horizons  open- 
ing in  the  inner  life. 

Mr.  Burroughs's  words,  already  quoted,  about 
Whitman's  sounding  "  all  pleasures  and  abandon- 
ments," were  written  forty  years  ago.  In  the  case 
of  almost  any  other  person  they  would  be  suffi- 
ciently specific  for  the  purposes  of  literary  bio- 
graphy. But  the  controversy  over  certain  phases 
of  Whitman's  writings  has  inevitably  raised  cer- 
tain questions  as  to  his  own  conduct.  He  has 
been  grossly  misjudged  in  many  ways,  in  default 
of  any  evidence,  and  now  that  certain  facts  are 
clear,  they  should,  I  think,  be  plainly  stated. 

When  Whitman's  English  friend  and  ad- 
mirer, J.  A.  Symonds,  first  read  "  Calamus,"  —  a 
group  of  poems  celebrating  the  intimate  friend- 
ship of  men  for  men,  —  he  had  doubts  over  some 
lines,  and  his  familiarity  with  certain  passages 
of  Greek  literature  increased  his  curiosity*  He 
wrote  to  Whitman  begging  for  a  more  exact 
elucidation,1  and  Whitman,  in  order  to  avoid 
any  possible  misconstruction,  wrote  frankly  in 
reply  concerning  his  own  early  relations  with 
women.  This  letter,  dated  August  10,  1890,  in 
Whitman's  seventy-second  year,  has  been  pub- 

1  See  With  Walt  Whitman  in  Camden,  p.  73  and  ff.,  Sy- 
moods' s  Study  of  Walt  Whitman,  p.  70,  and  the  Appendix. 


THE  CARESSER  OF  LIFE  45 

lishecl  in  part.1  The  following  sentences  are  suf- 
ficiently explicit :  — 

"My  life,  young  manhood,  mid-age,  times 
South,  etc.  have  been  jolly  bodily,  and  doubtless 
open  to  criticism.  Though  unmarried  I  have  had 
six  children  —  two  are  dead  —  one  living  South- 
ern grandchild,  fine  boy,  writes  to  me  occasion- 
ally —  circumstances  (connected  with  their  for- 
tune and  benefit)  have  separated  me  from  inti- 
mate relations." 

When  this  letter  was  first  made  public,  many 
of  Whitman's  stanch  friends  of  the  later  fifties 
and  the  sixties  refused  to  credit  its  statements, 
preferring  to  believe  that  the  old  man  had  been 
romancing.  But  it  had  long  been  known,  to  a 
smaller  group  of  his  Camden  friends,  that  Whit- 
man was  the  father  of  children,  and  that  he  had 
been  visited,  in  his  old  age,  by  a  grandson.  To 
one  of  these  friends  he  promised,  while  on  his 
death-bed,  to  tell  the  whole  story,  but  the  time 
for  explanation  never  came. 

In  one  sense,  comment  upon  this  phase  of 
Whitman's  life  is  as  superfluous  as  it  is  painful. 
Sins  against  chastity  commonly  bring  their  own 
punishment.  But  in  our  ignorance  of  all  the 
precise  facts  concerned  in  these  early  entangle- 

1  By  Edward  Carpenter  in  the  London  Reformer,  February ? 
1902.  This  article  now  forms  a  chapter  of  Carpenter's  Days 
with  Walt  Whitman,  New  York,  The  Macmillan  Co.,  1906. 


46  WALT   WHITMAN 

ments,  we  may  wisely  bear  in  mind  some  traits 
of  his  character  about  which  there  is  no  reason- 
able doubt.  One  of  these  traits  was  an  unfailing 
outward  respect  for  women.  A  daily  companion 
of  Whitman  in  Washington  tells  me  that  he 
never  heard  him  utter  a  word  that  could  not 
have  been  used  to  his  mother.  There  is  over- 
whelming testimony  that  for  thirty  years  there- 
after his  conversation,  though  often  blunt  enough, 
was  scrupulously  chaste.  There  is  also  abundant 
evidence  that  from  1862  onward  his  life  was 
stainless  so  far  as  sexual  relations  were  con- 
cerned. The  long  and  bitter  controversy  over 
the  decency  of  a  few  of  his  poems  has  led  many 
critics  to  assume  that  they  were  dealing  with 
a  libertine.  But  diligent  inquiry  among  Whit- 
man's early  associates  in  Brooklyn,  New  York, 
and  New  Orleans  has  never  produced  any 
evidence  that  he  was  known  to  be  a  companion 
of  dissolute  women.  What  woman  or  women  bore 
his  children,  what  unforeseen  tides  of  passion 
or  coils  of  circumstance  swept  and  encircled  him 
for  a  while,  may  never  be  known.  The  episode 
might  indeed  be  passed  over  with  a  reluctant 
phrase  or  two  by  his  biographers,  if  it  were  not 
for  the  part  it  played  in  the  origins  of  Leaves 
of  Grass. 

For  no  poet  can  "  sound  all  experiences  of 
life,  with  all  their  passions,  pleasures  and  aban- 


THE  CARESSER  OF  LIFE  47 

donments,"  and  leave  his  imagination  behind 
him  when  he  takes  the  plunge.  If  Walt  Whit- 
man were  really,  as  his  friend  John  Swinton 
once  described  him,  "  a  troglodite  pure  and  sim- 
ple "  (i.  e.  a  "  primitive  "  or  "  cosmic  "  type  of 
man)  literature  would  not  need  to  concern  itself 
with  whatever  appetites  were  sated  in  his  cave. 
An  Ajax  may  lead  a  Tecmessa  to  his  tent  and  be- 
come neither  a  worse  nor  a  better  swordsman. 
But  when  a  Goethe,  a  Burns  or  a  David  takes 
his  Tecmessa  home,  there  are  more  subtle  tricks 
of  imagination  and  of  will  to  be  reckoned  with. 
Whitman's  wonderful  book,  Leaves  of  Grass,  is 
the  reflection  of  an  inner  illumination,  of  a  mys- 
tical sense  of  union  with  the  world,  and  this  in 
turn  had  its  reinforcement,  if  not  its  origin,  in 
sexual  emotion.  The  book  was  a  child  of  pas- 
sion. Its  roots  are  deep  down  in  a  young  man's 
body  and  soul:  a  clean,  sensuous  body  and  a 
soul  untroubled  as  yet  by  the  darker  mysteries. 
But  to  conceive  of  Walt  Whitman  as  an  habit- 
ual libertine,  even  in  his  youth,  is  to  misun- 
derstand his  nature.  For  any  kind  of  pleasure, 
says  Mr.  Chesterton  in  a  recent  essay,1  there  is 
required  "  a  certain  shyness,  a  certain  indeter- 
minate hope,  a  certain  boyish  expectation. 
Purity  and  simplicity  are  essential  to  passions,  — 
yes,  even  to  evil  passions.  Even  vice  demands  a 

l  G.  K.  Chesterton,  Heretics,  p.  109. 


48  WALT  WHITMAN 

sort  of  virginity."  The  shy  boy  who  shrank  from 
the  obscenity  of  the  Brooklyn  street-corners,  who 
sheltered  himself  instinctively  from  any  rude  jar 
to  his  sensibilities,  was  in  due  time  the  very 
man  to  be  carried  away  by  a  tumult  of  sexual 
ecstasy,  to  glorify  nakedness,  and  to  declare  that 
nothing  is  common  or  unclean.  That  first  mod- 
esty, then  the  "  jolly  bodily "  phase,  with  its 
slow  subsiding  wave  of  tenderness  toward  the 
body,  and  finally  the  long  chastity  and  seren- 
ity of  the  clean-minded  old  age,  all  belong  to- 
gether as  integral  elements  of  a  certain  type  of 
man. 

When  Whitman  returned  from  the  South, 
there  seemed  at  first  to  be  but  little  change  in 
him.  "  He  was  the  same  man  he  had  been, 
grown  older  and  wiser,"  says  his  brother  George.1 

Full-grown  at  fifteen,  he  was  now,  at  thirty,  de- 
cidedly gray  of  hair  and  beard.  He  continued 
to  live  with  his  father  and  mother,  paying  board 
whenever  he  had  the  money.  For  a  while,  in 
1850-51,  he  interested  himself  with  launching 
another  newspaper,  the  Brooklyn  Freeman,  a 
Free-Soil  weekly,  afterward  a  daily.  His  polit- 
ical sympathies,  reacting  from  his  earlier  Demo- 
cratic affiliations,  gradually  turned  to  the  party 
of  "  Free  Soil,  Free  Speech,  Free  Labor  and  Free 

*  In  Be  Walt  Whitman. 


THE  CARESSER  OF  LIFE  49 

Men,"  which   was   afterward   merged  into  the 
new  Republican  party.1 

"  I  guess  it  was  about  those  years "  says 
his  brother  George,2  "  he  had  an  idea  he  could 
lecture.  He  wrote  what  mother  called  barrels 
of  lectures.  We  did  not  know  what  he  was 
writing.  He  did  not  seem  more  abstracted  than 
usual.  He  would  lie  abed  late,  and  after  get- 
ting up  would  write  a  few  hours  if  he  took 
the  notion  —  perhaps  would  go  off  the  rest  of  the 
day.  We  were  all  at  work  —  all  except  Walt.  " 
This  project  of  lecturing  was  one  to  which  Whit- 
man kept  recurring,  to  the  end  of  his  life.  It 
guided  at  intervals  his  desultory  reading,  and 
seemed  to  promise  an  opportunity  for  that  per- 
sonal impress  upon  other  men  which  his  nature 
had  now  begun  to  crave.  The  earliest  lecture  of 
which  there  is  any  record  was  delivered  before 
the  Brooklyn  Art  Union,  March  31,  1851.  It 
was  printed  in  the  Brooklyn  Daily  Advertiser 
of  April  3,  1851.  Only  a  few  sentences  appear 

1  Voices  from  the  Press,  a  volume  published  in  New  York 
in  1850,  made  up  of  contributions  by  printers  and  journalists, 
contained  Whitman's  "  Tomb  Blossoms."  In  the  "  Notices  of 
Contributors  *'  prefaced  to  the  book  there  is  a  brief  account  of 
Walter  Whitman,  closing  with  the  words  :  "  Mr.  Whitman  is 
an  ardent  politician  of  the  radical  democratic  school,  and  lately 
established  the  Daily  Freeman  in  Brooklyn,  to  promulgate 
his  favorite  '  Free  Soil,'  and  other  reformatory  doctrines." 

a  In  Me  Walt  Whitman. 


50  WALT  WHITMAN 

in  the  Prose  Works.1   The  opening  paragraphs 
are  interesting  in  their  evident  detachment  from 

O 

the  pressing  concerns  of  American  life. 

"  Among  such  a  people  as  the  Americans, 
viewing  most  things  with  an  eye  to  pecuniary 
profit  —  more  for  acquiring  than  enjoying  or 
well  developing  what  they  acquire  —  ambitious 
of  the  physical  rather  than  the  intellectual;  a 
race  to  whom  matter-of-fact  is  everything,  and 
the  ideal  nothing  —  a  nation  of  whom  the  steam- 
engine  is  no  bad  symbol — he  does  a  good  work 
who,  pausing  in  the  way,  calls  to  the  feverish 
crowd  that  in  the  life  we  live  upon  this  beauti- 
ful earth  there  may  after  all  be  something  vaster 
and  better  than  dress  and  the  table,  and  business 
and  politics. 

"  There  was  an  idle  Persian  hundreds  of 
years  ago  who  wrote  poems,  and  he  was  accosted 
by  one  who  believed  more  in  thrift.  '  Of  what 
use  are  you  ?  '  inquired  the  supercilious  son  of 
traffic.  The  poet  turning  plucked  a  rose  and 
said.  *  Of  what  use  is  this  ? '  '  To  be  beautiful, 
to  perfume  the  air/  answered  the  man  of  gains. 
'  And  I ',  responded  the  poet, '  am  of  use  to  per- 
ceive its  beauty  and  to  smell  its  perfume.* 

"  It  is  the  glorious  province  of  arts  and  of  all 
artists  worthy  of  the  name,  to  disentangle  from 
whatever  obstructs  it  and  nourish  in  the  heart 
i  Prose  Works,  p.  371. 


THE  CARESSER  OF  LIFE  51 

of  man  the  germ  of  the  perception  of  the  truly 
great,  the  beautiful  and  the  simple." 

After  a  description  of  the  Creation,  he  con- 
tinues :  — 

"  For  just  as  the  Lord  left  it  remains  yet  the 
beauty  of  His  work.  It  is  now  spring.  Already 
the  sun  has  warmed  the  blood  of  this  old  yet 
ever  youthful  earth  and  the  early  trees  are  bud* 
ding  and  the  early  flowers  beginning  to  bloom 
There  is  not  lost  one  of  earth's  charms.  Upon 
her  bosom  yet,  after  the  flight  of  untold  cen- 
turies, the  freshness  of  her  far  beginning  lies 
and  still  shall  lie.  With  this  freshness  —  with 
this  that  the  Lord  called  good,  the  artist  has  to  do 
—  and  it  is  a  beautiful  truth  that  all  men  con- 
tain something  of  the  artist  in  them.  And  per- 
haps it  is  sometimes  the  case  that  the  greatest 
artists  live  and  die,  the  world  and  themselves 
alike  ignorant  what  they  possess.  Who  would 
not  mourn  that  an  ample  palace  of  surpassingly 
graceful  architecture,  filled  with  luxuries  and 
gorgeously  embellished  with  fair  pictures  and 
sculpture,  should  stand  cold  and  still  and  vacant 
and  never  be  known  and  enjoyed  by  its  owner  ? 
Would  such  a  fact  as  this  cause  you  sadness  ? 
Then  be  sad.  For  there  is  a  palace  to  which  the 
courts  of  the  most  sumptuous  kings  are  but  a 
frivolous  patch  and  though  it  is  always  waiting 
for  them,  not  one  in  thousands  of  its  owners  eve* 


52  WALT  WHITMAN 

enters  there  with  any  genuine  sense  of  its  gran- 
deur and  glory. 

"  To  the  artist,  I  say,  has  been  given  the  com- 
mand :  '  Go  forth  into  all  the  world  and  preach 
the  gospel  of  beauty.'  The  perfect  man  is  the 
perfect  artist  and  it  cannot  be  otherwise.  For  in 
the  much  that  has  been  said  of  nature  and  art 
there  is  mostly  the  absurd  error  of  considering 
the  two  as  distinct.  Rousseau,  himself,  in  reality 
one  of  the  most  genuine  artists,  starting  from  his 
false  point  ran  into  his  beautiful  encomiums  upon 
nature  and  his  foolish  sarcasms  upon  art." 

Then  follows  a  description,  quite  unwarranted 
by  any  historical  evidence,  of  the  death-bed  of 
Rousseau,  a  writer  in  whom  the  lecturer  felt  a 
strong  interest,  and  whose  genius  offers,  as  will 
be  pointed  out  later,  many  striking  parallelisms 
to  Whitman's.1  From  this  fictitious  death-bed 
scene,  the  lecturer  passes  to  a  consideration  of 
the  conception  of  Death  in  Greek  art,  and  thence 
to  a  panegyric  of  the  refined  and  artistic  dignity 
of  Greek  life,  —  drawing  his  material,  as  he 
naively  states,  from  "  a  lecture  given  the  other 
evening  at  a  neighboring  city."  The  contrast 
between  this  perfect  ideal  of  man  and  the  con- 

1  A  manuscript  translation  of  several  pages  of  the  Contrat 
Social,  in  Whitman's  handwriting,  though  certainly  not  made 
by  Whitman  himself,  and  dating  from  the  late  forties  or  early 
fifties,  was  discovered  among  the  poet's  papers  by  Dr.  Bucke. 


THE  CARESSER  OF  LIFE  53 

ventional  American  of  1851  then  inspires  this 
sarcastic  passage,  which  reveals  how  far  Whit- 
man had  already  gone  on  the  road  that  led 
straight  from  the  tall  hat  and  boutonniere  of 
1840  to  the  flannel  shirt  and  tucked-in  trousers 
of  1855. 

"  Then  see  him  in  all  the  perfection  of  fash- 
ionable tailordom  —  the  tight  boot  with  the  high 
heel ;  the  trousers  big  at  the  ankle,  on  some  rule 
inverting  the  ordinary  ones  of  grace ;  the  long, 
large  cuffs,  and  thick  stiff  collar  of  his  coat  — 
the  swallow-tailed  coat  on  which  dancing  masters 
are  inexorable ;  the  neck  swathed  in  many  bands 
giving  support  to  the  modern  high  and  pointed 
shirt  collar,  that  fearful  sight  to  an  approaching 
enemy — the  modern  shirt  collar,  bold  as  Colum- 
bus, stretching  off  into  the  unknown  distance  — 
and  then,  to  crown  all,  the  fashionable  hat,  be- 
fore which  language  has  nothing  to  say  because 
sight  is  the  only  thing  that  can  begin  to  do  it 
justice  —  and  we  have  indeed  a  model  for  the 
sculptor." 

Finally,  with  a  sound  oratorical  instinct,  the 
lecturer  asserts  that  heroic  action  exhibits  "  the 
highest  phases  of  the  artist  spirit." 

"  Talk  not  so  much  then,  young  artist,  of  the 
great  old  masters  who  but  painted  and  chiseled. 
Study  not  only  their  productions.  There  is  a  still 
better,  higher  school  for  him  who  would  kindle 


54  WALT  WHITMAN 

his  fire  with  coal  from  the  altar  of  the  loftiest 
and  purest  art.  It  is  the  school  of  all  grand  ac- 
tions and  grand  virtues,  of  heroism,  of  the  deaths 
of  captives  and  martyrs  —  of  all  the  mighty 
deeds  written  in  the  pages  of  history  —  deeds  of 
daring  and  enthusiasm  and  devotion  and  forti- 
tude. Read  well  the  death  of  Socrates,  and  of  a 
greater  than  Socrates.  Read  how  slaves  have 
battled  against  their  oppressors  —  how  the  bul- 
lets of  tyrants  have,  since  the  first  king  ruled, 
never  been  able  to  put  down  the  unquenchable 
thirst  of  man  for  his  rights. 

"  In  the  sunny  peninsula  where  art  was  trans- 
planted from  Greece  and  generations  afterward 
flourished  into  new  life,  we  even  now  see  the 
growth  that  is  to  be  expected  among  a  people 
pervaded  by  a  love  and  appreciation  of  beauty. 
In  Naples,  in  Rome,  in  Venice,  that  ardor  for 
liberty  which  is  a  constituent  part  of  all  well- 
developed  artists  and  without  which  a  man 
cannot  be  such,  has  had  a  struggle  —  a  hot  and 
baffled  one.  The  inexplicable  destinies  have 
shaped  it  so.  The  dead  lie  in  their  graves  ;  but 
their  august  and  beautiful  enthusiasm  is  not 
dead:  — 

"  Those  corpses  of  young  men, 
Those  martyrs  that  hung  from  the  gibbets, 
Those  hearts  pierced  by  the  gray  lead, 
Cold  and  motionless  as  they  seem 


THE  CARESSER  OF  LIFE  55 

Live  elsewhere  with  undying  vitality  ; 

They  live  in  other  young  men,  O  kings, 

They  live  in  brothers  again  ready  to  defy  you. 

They  were  purified  by  death  ; 

They  were  taught  and  exalted. 

Not  a  grave  of  those  slaughtered  ones 

But  is  growing  its  seed  of  freedom, 

In  its  turn  to  bear  seed, 

Which  the  wind  shall  carry  afar  and  re-sow, 

And  the  rain  nourish. 

Not  a  disembodied  spirit 

Can  the  weapons  of  tyrants  let  loose 

But  it  shall  stalk  invisibly  over  the  earth 

Whispering,  counseling,  cautioning. 

"  I  conclude  here,  as  there  can  be  no  true  artist 
without  a  glowing  thought  of  freedom,  —  so  free- 
dom pays  the  artist  back  again  many  fold,  and 
under  her  umbrage  Art  must  sooner  or  later 
tower  to  its  loftiest  and  most  perfect  propor- 
tions." 

Strong  as  was  Whitman's  impulse,  at  this 
time  and  later,  toward  a  direct  oral  expression 
of  the  thoughts  that  dominated  him,  nothing 
came  of  the  lecturing  scheme.  With  a  serene 
indifference  to  the  mere  manner  of  making  a 
living,  he  joined  his  father  —  a  full-lipped,  ob- 
stinate-eyed, puzzled  man,  now  in  his  sixties  — 
in  building  and  selling  small  wooden  houses  in 
the  outskirts  of  the  rapidly  growing  city  of 
Brooklyn.  John  Burroughs  tells  me  that  he 


66  WALT  WHITMAN 

does  not  see  how  Walt  could  ever  have  handled 
saw  and  hammer  skillfully  enough  to  make  him 
an  acceptable  carpenter.  Yet  he  continued  for 
three  or  four  years,  on  and  off,  to  work  at  the 
new  calling.  Local  conditions  just  then  made 
house-building  a  lucrative  venture,  and  his  bro- 
thers thought  that  Walt  now  had  "  his  chance." 
But  a  St.  Paul  supporting  himself  by  tent-making 
while  his  mind  brooded  upon  the  new  Gospel 
was  not  more  capable  than  Whitman  of  combin- 
ing manual  employment  with  spiritual  preoccu- 
pation. Very  deliberately,  as  was  his  manner  in 
all  things,  this  ruminative  and  unpractical  car- 
penter began  to  plan  an  extraordinary  thing, —  a 
book  which  should  embody  himself  and  his  coun- 
try. All  that  he  had  experienced  was  to  be  a  part 
of  it ;  the  life  which  he  had  hitherto  caressed  cas- 
ually, as  one  touches  now  the  cheek  and  now  the 
hand  of  the  beloved,  was  to  yield  itself  wholly ; 
to  lose,  as  it  were,  its  own  individual  existence, 
and  to  reappear  as  a  Book,  but  a  Book  with  all 
the  potencies  of  life  so  coursing  in  it  that  it 
should  seem  not  so  much  a  Book  as  a  Man. 

It  was  this  Book  that  he  was  really  building, 
as  he  sauntered  back  and  forth  to  his  day's  work, 
dinner-pail  in  hand,  and  often  with  a  copy  of 
Emerson's  Essays  in  his  pocket,  to  read  at  noon- 
time. But  he  was  not  so  absorbed  in  the  construc- 
tion of  a  new  kind  of  poetry  as  to  be  quite  indif- 


THE   CARESSER  OF  LIFE  67 

ferent  to  what  was  passing  around  him.  Always 
quickly  concerned  with  whatever  made  for  the 
comfort,  happiness  and  freedom  of  the  ordinary 
citizen,  the  book-loving  carpenter  found  much 
to  condemn  in  the  city  ordinances  of  Brooklyn. 
He  wrote  in  1854  a  memorial  to  the  Common 
Council  and  Mayor,  in  behalf  of  a  freer  munici- 
pal government  and  against  Sunday  restrictions.1 
This  memorial  is  not  only  excellent  in  spirit, 
but  it  states  with  vigorous  common-sense  cer- 
tain principles  of  municipal  administration  which 
still  need  emphasis.  A  few  characteristic  pas- 
sages may  well  be  given  here. 

"The  mere  shutting  off  from  the  general 
body  of  the  citizens  of  the  popular  and  cheap 
conveyance  of  the  city  railroad,  the  very  day 
when  experience  proves  they  want  it  most,  and 
the  obstinate  direction  of  the  whole  executive 
and  police  force  of  Brooklyn  into  a  contest  with 
the  keepers  of  public  houses,  news  depots,  cigar 
shops,  bakeries,  confectionery  and  eating  saloons 
and  other  places,  whether  they  shall  open  or  close 
on  Sunday,  are  not  in  themselves  matters  of  all- 
engrossing  importance.  The  stoppage  of  the 
Rail  cars  causes  much  vexation  and  weariness 
to  many  families,  especially  in  any  communica- 
tion to  and  from  East  Brooklyn,  Williamsburgh, 

1  Printed  in  the  Brooklyn  Star,  Oct.  20,  1854.   I  am  indebt- 
ed to  Mr.  John  Burroughs  for  a  copy. 


58  WALT   WHITMAN 

Greenpoint,  Bushwick,  New  Brooklyn,  Bedford 
and  Greenwood ;  and  both  stoppages  do  no 
earthly  good.  But  beneath  this  the  blunder  rises 
from  something  deeper.  These  restrictions  are 
part  of  a  radical  mistake  about  the  policy  and 
lawful  power  of  an  American  City  Govern- 
ment. .  .  . 

"  Shallow  people,  possessed  with  zeal  for  any 
particular  cause,  make  it  a  great  merit  to  run  to 
and  fro  after  special  prohibitions  that  shall  fix 
the  case  and  emasculate  sin  out  of  our  houses 
and  streets.  Alas,  gentlemen,  the  civilized  world 
has  been  overwhelmed  with  prohibitions  for  many 
hundred  years.  We  do  not  want  prohibitions. 
What  is  always  wanted  is  a  few  strong-handed, 
big-brained,  practical,  honest  men  at  the  lead  of 
affairs.  The  true  friends  of  the  Sabbath  and 
of  its  purifying  and  elevating  influences,  and  of 
many  excellent  physical  and  other  reforms  that 
mark  the  present  age,  are  not  necessarily  those 
who  complacently  put  themselves  forward  and 
seek  to  carry  the  good  through  by  penalties 
and  stoppages  and  arrests  and  fines.  The  true 
friends  of  elevation  and  reform  are  the  friends 
of  the  fullest  rational  liberty.  For  there  is  this 
vital  and  antiseptic  power  in  liberty,  that  it 
tends  forever  and  ever  to  strengthen  what  is 
good  and  erase  what  is  bad. 

"  For  the  City  or  State  to  become  the  overseer 


THE   CARESSER  OF  LIFE  59 

and  dry  nurse  of  a  man  and  coerce  him,  any 
further  than  before  mentioned,  into  how  he  must 
behave  himself  and  when  and  whither  he  must 
travel  and  by  what  conveyance,  or  what  he  shall 
be  permitted  to  use  or  dispose  of  on  certain  days 
of  the  week,  and  what  forced  to  disuse,  would  be 
to  make  a  poor  thing  of  a  man.  —  In  such  mat- 
ters the  American  sign-posts  turn  in  the  same 
direction  for  all  the  grades  of  our  governments. 
The  citizen  must  have  room.  He  must  learn  to 
be  so  muscular  and  self-possessed,  to  rely  more 
on  the  restrictions  of  himself  than  any  restric- 
tion of  statute  books  or  city  ordinances  or  police. 
This  is  the  feeling  that  will  make  live  men  and 
superior  women.  This  will  make  a  great  ath- 
letic spirited  city  of  noble  and  marked  character, 
with  a  reputation  for  itself  wherever  railroads 
run  and  ships  sail  and  newspapers  and  books  are 
read.  .  .  . 

"  I  have  also,  gentlemen,  with  perfect  respect 
to  remind  you  and  through  you  to  remind  others, 
including  those,  whoever  they  may  be,  who  de- 
sire to  be  your  successors,  or  to  hold  any  office, 
prominent  or  subordinate  in  the  city  govern- 
ment, of  the  stern  demand  in  all  parts  of  the  Re- 
public, for  a  better,  purer,  more  generous  and 
comprehensive  administration  of  the  affairs  of 
cities ;  a  demand  in  which  I,  in  common  with 
the  quite  entire  body  of  my  fellow  citizens 


60  WALT  WHITMAN 

and  fellow  taxpayers  of  Brooklyn,  cordially 
join. 

"  We  believe  the  mighty  interests  of  so  many 
people,  and  so  much  life  and  wealth  should  be 
far  less  at  the  sport  or  dictation  of  caucuses  and 
cabals.  ...  I  do  not  think  so  highly  of  what  is  to 
be  done  at  the  capitols  of  Washington  or  Albany. 
Here  it  is  enough  for  us  to  attend  to  Brooklyn. 
There  is  indeed  no  better  scope  for  practically 
exhibiting  the  full  sized  American  idea,  than  in 
a  great,  free,  proud  American  city.  Most  of  our 
cities  are  huge  aggregates  of  people,  riches  and 
enterprise.  The  avenues,  edifices  and  furniture 
are  splendid ;  but  what  is  that  to  splendor  of 
character?  To  encourage  the  growth  of  trade 
and  property  is  commendable,  but  our  politics 
might  also  encourage  the  forming  of  men  of 
superior  demeanor  and  less  shuffling  and  blow- 
ing. 

"  Marked  as  the  size,  numbers,  elegance  and 
respectability  of  Brooklyn  have  become,  a  more 
lasting  and  solid  glory  of  this  or  any  community 
must  always  be  in  personal  and  might  be  in 
municipal  qualities.  Out  of  these  in  ancient 
times,  a  few  thousand  men  made  the  names  of 
their  cities  immortal.  The  free  and  haughty 
democracy  of  some  of  those  old  towns,  not  one 
third  our  size  of  population,  rated  themselves  on 
equal  terms  with  powerful  kingdoms,  and  are 


THE  CARESSER  OF  LIFE  61 

preserved  in  literature,  and  the  admiration  of  the 
earth." 

Then  follows  a  glowing  description  of  the  city 
of  Brooklyn,  and  its  possibilities  of  development 
under  a  proper  civic  pride.  The  letter  closes 
with  this  characteristic  utterance  :  — 

"  After  all  is  said,  however,  the  work  of  es- 
tablishing and  raising  the  character  of  cities  of 
course  remains  at  last  in  their  original  capacity 
with  the  people  themselves.  Strictly  speaking 
when  the  proper  time  comes  it  comes.  Perhaps 
the  citizens  have  no  right  to  complain  of  being 
hampered  and  cheated  and  overtaxed  and  in- 
sulted, for  they  always  hold  the  remedy  in  their 
own  hands  and  can  apply  it  whenever  they  like. 
I  am  not  the  man  to  soft-soap  the  people  any 
more  than  I  do  office  holders,  but  this  I  say  for 
them  at  all  times  that  their  very  credulity  and 
repeated  confidence  in  others  are  organic  signs 
of  noble  elements  in  the  National  character. 

WALTER  WHITMAN." 

So  far  as  I  am  aware,  this  is  the  last  signed 
composition  of  Whitman's  previous  to  the  pub- 
lication, in  the  following  July,  of  Leaves  of 
Grass.  In  its  earnest,  lofty  conception  of  the 
value  of  the  individual  man,  it  may  serve  to 
symboKze  the  close  of  a  long  and  random  chapter 


62  WALT   WHITMAN 

of  experience.  The  boyish,  dandified  editor  of 
the  Long  Islander,  so  avid  of  emotional  stim- 
ulus, so  prodigal  of  vitality,  had  become  a  quiet, 
slow-footed,  gray-bearded  workingman.  More 
than  a  dozen  years  had  passed  since  his  name 
had  first  been  printed  in  the  table  of  contents  of 
the  Democratic  Review,  side  by  side  with  those 
of  Whittier,  Bryant,  and  Longfellow.  These  writ- 
ers, together  with  Hawthorne,  Lowell,  and  other 
magazinists  of  the  forties,  had  slowly  strength- 
ened their  hold  upon  the  public.  Whitman  had 
been  forgotten.  The  newer  magazines,  Harper's, 
founded  in  1850,  and  Putnam's,  founded  in  1853, 
were  already  cultivating  a  younger  generation  of 
authors. 

To  the  restless  fermentation  of  thought  that 
marks  the  decade  of  1840-1850  Whitman  had 
in  fact  contributed  nothing,  though  he  had  ab- 
sorbed much.  The  religious  world,  the  intellec- 
tual, social,  and  economic  worlds,  had  been  pro- 
foundly shaken  by  movements  that  are  associated 
in  England  with  the  names  of  such  men  as  New- 
man and  Pusey,  Carlyle,  Dickens  and  Kingsley, 
Cobden  and  Bright.  The  common  passion  of  such 
spirits  as  these  was  the  improvement  of  man. 
In  America,  too,  the  decade  had  been  marked 
by  crusades  of  every  sort.  The  Transcenden- 
talist  belief  in  the  truths  that  escape  the  bounds 
set  by  the  external  senses  had  spread  far  beyond 


THE  CARESSER  OF  LIFE  63 

Concord  and  Cambridge.  Communism  and  so- 
cialism were  in  the  air,  as  well  as  abolitionism 
and  perfectionism.  Emerson  and  Lowell  have 
left  witty  descriptions  of  the  universal  flux  of 
doctrine,  the  cult  of  fads  of  every  kind,  "the 
sans-culottism  of  the  forties."  Brisbane  and 
Greeley  had  been  expounders  of  Fourierism. 
Men  as  variously  endowed  as  Hawthorne,  Ripley 
and  Curtis  had  sought  a  common  refuge  at  Brook 
Farm.  Many  of  the  "  Disciples  of  the  Newness  " 
took,  like  Whitman  himself,  to  the  open  road. 
41  Some  went  abroad  and  lived  in  Europe  and 
were  rarely  heard  from ;  others  dwelt  at  home 
and  achieved  nothing  ;  while  others,  on  the  con- 
trary, had  the  most  laborious  and  exacting  ca- 
reers. Others  led  lives  morally  wasted,  whether 
by  the  mere  letting  loose  of  a  surge  of  passion  ill 
restrained,  or  by  the  terrible  impulse  of  curiosity 
which  causes  more  than  half  the  sins  of  each 
growing  generation,  and  yet  is  so  hard  to  dis- 
tinguish from  the  heroic  search  after  knowledge. 
I  can  think  of  men  among  those  bred  in  that 
period,  and  seemingly  under  its  full  influence, 
who  longed  to  know  the  worst  of  life  and  knew 
it,  and  paid  dearly  for  their  knowledge ;  and 
their  kindred  paid  more  dearly  still.  .  .  .  Others 
vanished,  and  are  to  this  day  untraced ;  and  yet 
all  were  but  a  handful  compared  with  the  major- 
ity which  remained  true  to  early  dreams  while 


64  WALT  WHITMAN 

the  world  called  them  erratic,  and  the  church 
pronounced  them  unredeemed."  l 

But  before  Whitman  laid  down  his  carpenter's 
tools,  the  reaction  against  Transcendentalism  — 
that  American  back-current  of  the  wave  of  Eng- 
lish and  German  Romanticism — had  already  set 
in.  Both  the  movement  and  the  reaction  may 
be  curiously  traced  in  the  careers  of  three  young 
men  who  were  all  born  in  the  same  year  as  Whit- 
man, 1819.  W.  W.  Story,  who  had  married  at 
twenty-three,  practised  law  and  written  successful 
law  books  for  six  years,  suddenly  abandoned  a 
brilliant  professional  career,  and  with  the  slight- 
est preparatory  training  sailed  for  Italy  in  1847 
to  become  an  artist.  An  artist,  but  an  exile,  he 
remained.  Charles  A.  Dana,  the  famous  editor 
of  the  New  York  Sun,  was  in  1841  passing  the 
griddle-cakes  at  Brook  Farm,  and  contributing 
religious  sonnets  to  Margaret  Fuller's  Dial.  But 
by  1847  he  had  joined  Ripley,  another  ship- 
wrecked mariner  from  Brook  Farm,  upon  the 
relatively  solid  ground  of  the  New  York  Tri- 
bune. James  Russell  Lowell,  another  son  of 
1819,  was  crossed  in  love  and  meditating  suicide 
in  the  very  year  that  Walt  Whitman  was  buying 
type  for  the  Long  Islander.  But  in  the  next 

1  Thomas  Wentworth  Higginson  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly, 
January,  1904  :  "  The  Sunny  Side  of  the  Transcendental 
Period,"  now  reprinted  in  Part  of  a  Man's  life. 


THE  CARESSER  OF  LIFE  65 

fifteen  years  Lowell  had  weathered  his  Storm 
and  Stress  period,  written  successful  volumes  of 
poetry,  grown  a  trifle  weary  of  the  society  of  re- 
formers, and  qualified  himself  for  a  professorship 
at  Harvard. 

In  purely  intellectual  eagerness  and  brilliancy 
each  of  these  three  young  men  surpassed  Walt 
Whitman.  At  thirty-six  each  one  of  them  had 
outlived  certain  phases  of  Transcendental  enthu- 
siasm and  had  settled  into  a  definite  career.  But 
Whitman,  a  true  child  of  his  age,  though  an  ob- 
stinate one,  seemed  to  be  prolonging  his  child- 
hood indefinitely.  Like  Thackeray,  another  "  ca- 
resser  of  life  "  until  thirty-six,  he  had  thus  far 
been  outstripped  by  many  less  enduring  but 
swifter  rivals.  And  yet  the  deeper  fact  is  that 
Whitman  was  never  really  competing  with  other 
men  for  any  of  the  tangible  prizes.  He  was  quest- 
ing. No  Romanticist  wandering  in  search  of  the 
magic  Blue  Flower  ever  carried  a  heart  more 
tremulously  eager  for  all  "  the  beautiful  perfect 
things."  Some  of  them  he  found  and  some  of 
them  he  missed.  Upon  the  road  that  he  chose  to 
travel  he  met  with  much  good  and  much  evil. 
His  nature,  which  was  sound  and  sweet  rather 
than  delicate  and  austere,  tranquilly  received 
both  good  and  evil,  as  into  an  ample  and  mo- 
therly embrace.  For  there  was  a  good  deal  of  the 
woman  in  Walt  Whitman,  as  well  as  a  good  deal 


66  WALT  WHITMAN 

of  the  man.  To  find  what  he  had  experienced 
and  brooded  over,  while  his  Transcendental  con- 
temporaries had  gone  on,  leaving  him  apparently 
far  behind  them,  we  must  turn  to  Leaves  of 
Grass. 


CHAPTER  HI 

LEAVES   OF  GRASS 

"  Like  a  font  of  type,  poetry  must  be  set  up  over  again  con- 
sistent with  American,  modern  and  democratic  institutions."  — 
Walt  Whitman  to  a  New  York  Herald  reporter  in  1888. 

"  Yes,  Walt  often  spoke  to  me  of  his  books.  I  would  tell 
him  '  I  don't  know  what  you  are  trying-  to  get  at ! '  And  this 
is  the  idea  I  would  always  arrive  at  from  his  reply.  All  other 
people  in  the  world  have  had  their  representatives  in  litera- 
ture :  here  is  a  great  big  race  with  no  representatives.  He 
would  undertake  to  furnish  that  representative.  It  was  also 
his  object  to  get  a  real  human  being  into  a  book.  This  had 
never  been  done  before."  —  Peter  Doyle,  street-car  conductor 
and  railroad  man,  in  1895. 

"A  page  with  as  true  and  inevitable  and  deep  a  meaning 
as  a  hillside,  a  book  which  Nature  shall  own  as  her  own  flower, 
her  own  leaves;  with  whose  leaves  her  own  shall  rustle  in 
sympathy  imperishable  and  russet ;  which  shall  push  out  with 
the  skunk-cabbage  in  the  spring1.  I  am  not  offended  by  the 
odor  of  the  skunk  [-cabbage]  in  passing  by  sacred  places.  I 
am  invigorated  rather.  It  is  a  reminiscence  of  immortality 
borne  on  the  gale.  O  thou  partial  world,  when  wilt  thou  know 
God  ?  I  would  as  soon  transplant  this  vegetable  to  Polynesia 
or  to  heaven  with  me  as  the  violet."  —  Thoreau's  Journal,  May, 
1850.  Unpublished  until  1906. 

IN   the   spring  of  1855  Whitman  dropped  his 
saw  and  hammer  and  began  to  set  up  with  his 


68  WALT  WHITMAN 

own  hands  the  type  for  his  book,  using  the  print- 
ing establishment  of  Andrew  and  James  Rome 
at  the  corner  of  Cranberry  and  Fulton  Streets, 
Brooklyn.  The  first  drafts  of  his  "  copy "  had 
been  written  in  theatres  or  ferry-boats  and  om- 
nibuses, or  wherever  he  happened  to  be,  but  it 
had  been  revised  and  elaborated  —  as  he  after- 
ward told  his  friend  Dr.  Bucke  —  no  less  than 
five  times.  "  I  had  great  trouble,"  he  says  in 
Specimen  Days,  "  in  leaving  out  the  stock 
4  poetical '  touches,  but  succeeded  at  last." 

In  no  sense,  therefore,  was  Leaves  of  Grass 
an  impromptu.  It  was  the  result  of  a  purpose 
which  had  been  slowly  forming  for  years.  One  of 
the  clearest  of  Whitman's  many  formulations  of 
this  purpose  is  found  in  "A  Backward  Glance :  " 

"  After  continued  personal  ambition  and  effort, 
as  a  young  fellow,  to  enter  with  the  rest  into  com- 
petition for  the  usual  rewards,  business,  political, 
literary,  etc.,  —  to  take  part  in  the  great  melee, 
both  for  victory's  prize  itself  and  to  do  some 
good  —  after  years  of  those  aims  and  pursuits,  I 
found  myself  remaining  possessed,  at  the  age  of 
thirty-one  to  thirty-three,  with  a  special  desire 
and  conviction.  Or  rather,  to  be  quite  exact,  a 
desire  that  had  been  flitting  through  my  previous 
life,  or  hovering  on  the  flanks,  mostly  indefinite 
hitherto,  had  steadily  advanced  to  the  front,  de- 
fined itself,  and  finally  dominated  everything  else. 


LEAVES  OF  GRASS  69 

This  was  a  feeling  or  ambition  to  articulate  and 
faithfully  express  in  literary  or  poetic  form,  and 
uncompromisingly,  my  own  physical,  emotional, 
moral,  intellectual  and  a3sthetic  Personality,  in 
the  midst  of,  and  tallying,  the  momentous  spirit 
and  facts  of  its  immediate  days,  and  of  current 
America  —  and  to  exploit  that  Personality,  iden- 
tified with  place  and  date,  in  a  far  more  candid 
and  comprehensive  sense  than  any  hitherto  poem 
or  book."  l 

This  passage  reminds  one  of  the  famous  open- 
ing sentences  of  the  Confessions  of  Rousseau, 
a  book,  by  the  way,  which  Whitman  did  not 
like,  in  spite  of  his  admiration  for  its  author. 
But  there  is  no  real  reason  for  thinking  that 
Whitman  consciously  imitated  any  of  the  mas- 
ters of  literary  autobiography.  No  path  like  his 
had  been  blazed  through  the  American  forest, 
at  least,  and  he  struck  into  it  with  all  the  sen- 
sations of  a  pioneer. 

"  Write  a  book  of  new  things  "  is  one  of  the 
entries  in  his  notebook  of  this  period.  Here  are 
some  other  significant  jottings :  "  Make  no  quot- 
ations and  no  reference  to  any  other  writers." 
—  "No,  I  do  not  choose  to  write  a  poem  on  a 
lady's  sparrow,  like  Catullus  —  or  on  a  parrot, 
like  Ovid  —  nor  love  songs  like  Anacreon  — 
nor  even2  .  .  .  like  Homer  —  nor  the  siege  of 

1  Leaves  of  Grass,  p.  434. 

2  The  dots  represent  blanks  in  the  MS. 


70  WALT  WHITMAN 

Jerusalem  like  Tasso  —  nor  .  .  .  nor  ...  as 
Shakespeare!  What  have  these  themes  to  do 
in  America  ?  or  what  are  they  to  us  except  as 
beautiful  studies,  reminiscences  ?  All  those  are 
good  —  they  are  what  they  are  —  I  know  they 
should  not  have  been  different  —  I  do  not  say 
I  will  furnish  anything  better  —  but  instead  I 
will  aim  at  high  immortal  works  —  American, 
the  robust,  large,  manly  character  —  the  perfect 
woman — the  illustriousness  of  sex,  which  I  will 
celebrate.  Shakespeare  and  Walter  Scott  are 
indeed  the  limners  and  recorders  —  as  Homer 
was  one  before,  and  the  greatest,  perhaps,  of 
any  recorder.  All  belong  to  the  class  who  de- 
pict characters  and  events  and  they  are  masters 
of  the  kind.  I  will  be  also  a  master  after  my 
own  kind,  making  the  poems  of  emotion,  as 
they  pass  or  stay,  the  poems  of  freedom,  and  the 
expose  of  personality  —  singing  in  high  tones 
Democracy  and  the  New  World  of  it  through 
These  States."1 

It  is  a  mistake  to  interpret  such  note-book 
passages  as  these  as  "tall  talk"  merely.  A 
poet  who  chooses,  as  did  Wordsworth,  to  take 
himself  with  uniform  seriousness  is  sure  to  ex- 
cite the  occasional  smile,  and  there  is  cause 
enough  for  humor  in  Whitman's  penciled  com- 
ment upon  an  article  on  the  dangers  of  egotism 

1  Dr.  Bucke  notes  :  "  Probably  written  before  1850." 


LEAVES  OF  GRASS  71 

(in  Graham's  Magazine,  March,  1845) :  "  See 
above  and  Beware"  But  Whitman  was  fully 
as  conscious  as  Wordsworth  of  the  exalted  na- 
ture of  the  poet's  function,  and,  like  him  again, 
had  devoted  close  attention  to  the  theory  of 
poetic  style.  Among  his  "  Rules  for  Composi- 
tion," written  early  in  the  fifties,  he  mentions  : 
"  A  perfectly  transparent  plate-glassy  style, 
artless,  with  no  ornaments,  or  attempts  at  orna- 
ments, for  their  own  sake.  .  .  .  Take  no  illustra- 
tions whatever  from  the  ancients  or  classics  .  .  . 
nor  from  the  royal  and  aristocratic  institutions 
and  forms  of  Europe.  Make  no  mention  or 
allusion  to  them  whatever  except  as  they  relate 
to  the  new,  present  things  —  to  our  country  — 
to  American  character  or  interests.  .  .  .  Com- 
mon idioms  and  phrases  —  Yankeeisms  and  vul- 
garisms —  cant  expressions,  when  very  pat  only." 
In  a  similar  passage  of  later  date,  he  exclaims : 
"  No  ornamental  similes  at  all  —  not  one :  per- 
fect transparent  clearness  sanity  and  health  are 
wanted  —  that  is  the  divine  style  —  O  if  it  can 
be  attained  —  " 

Concerning  originality  and  eccentricity  he 
notes : 

"The  originality  must  be  of  the  spirit  and 
show  itself  in  new  combinations  and  new  mean- 
ings and  discovering  greatness  and  harmony 
where  there  was  before  thought  no  greatness. 


72  WALT  WHITMAN 

The  style  of  expression  must  be  carefully  purged 
of  anything  striking  or  dazzling  or  ornamental 
—  and  with  great  severity  precluded  from  all 
that  is  eccentric."  In  commenting  upon  his 
reading  of  Ossian  he  warns  himself :  "  Don't 
fall  into  the  Ossianic  'by  any  chance"  As  he 
passes  from  the  discussion  of  the  mere  externals 
of  style  to  its  psychologic  basis  he  is  no  less 
interesting,  in  view  of  his  own  subsequent  per- 
formance :  "  The  best  poetry  is  simply  that  which 
has  the  perfectest  beauty  —  beauty  to  the  ear, 
beauty  to  the  brain,  beauty  to  the  heart,  beauty 
to  the  time  and  place." 

And  finally,  there  is  among  Whitman's  pre- 
paratory notes  for  Leaves  of  Grass  a  superb 
passage  which  might  have  stood  in  Emerson's 
American  Scholar  address  of  1837.  Its  open- 
ing sentences  are  these :  — 

"  Understand  that  you  can  have  in  your  writ- 
ing no  qualities  which  you  do  not  honestly  enter- 
tain in  yourself.  Understand  that  you  cannot 
keep  out  of  your  writing  the  indication  of  the 
evil  or  shallowness  you  entertain  in  yourself. 
If  you  love  to  have  a  servant  stand  behind  your 
chair  at  dinner,  it  will  appear  in  your  writing  ; 
if  you  possess  a  vile  opinion  of  women,  or  if  you 
grudge  anything,  or  doubt  immortality,  these  will 
appear  by  what  you  leave  unsaid  more  than  by 
what  you  say.  There  is  no  trick  or  cunning,  no 


LEAVES  OF  GRASS  73 

art  or  recipe  by  which  you  can  have  in  your  writ- 
ing that  which  you  do  not  possess  in  yourself."  1 

It  was  out  of  this  deep  self -scrutiny,  and  after 
this  long  period  of  meditation  upon  the  nature 
and  method  of  the  poet's  task,  that  Leaves  of 
Grass  came  into  being.  As  poetry,  it  was,  like 
the  Lyrical  Ballads,  neither  better  nor  worse 
for  the  critical  theorizing  that  preceded  it ;  but 
as  a  document  in  literary  history  it  gains  in  dig- 
nity and  significance. 

The  physical  appearance  of  the  book  was 
unique  enough.  It  was  a  tall,  thin  quarto,  bound 
in  dark  green  cloth  ornamented  with  flowers. 
Upon  both  covers  and  upon  the  back  appeared 
the  title,  Leaves  of  Grass,  in  decorated  gilt  let- 
tering. The  page  was  of  generous  proportions, 
measuring  eleven  inches  by  seven  and  three 
quarters.  Save  for  a  single  reference  on  page 
29  to  "Walt  Whitman,  an  American,"  and  for 
the  copyright  notice  "  by  Walter  Whitman,"  the 
author's  name  was  not  given ;  the  title  page 
bearing  simply  the  words  Leaves  of  Grass, 
Brooklyn,  New  York :  1855.  Opposite  the  title 
page,  however,  was  a  steel  engraving  of  the 
author,2  from  a  daguerreotype  taken  by  G.  Har- 

1  Printed  iu  Prose  Works,  Camden  Edition,  vol.  vi,  pp.  39-42. 

2  The  engraving  was  made   in   McRae's  establishment,  by 
S.   Hollyer.    The  original  plate,  slightly    retouched,  is    still 
used  by  Small,  Maynard  and  Co.  for  their  standard  edition  of 
Leaves  of  Grass. 


74  WALT  WHITMAN 

rison  in  1854.  Few  portraits  of  authors  have 
become  more  famous.  From  the  top  of  the  black 
slouch  hat  to  the  knees,  every  line  is  in  keeping 
with  an  admirable  pose.  The  left  hand  is  thrust 
into  the  trousers  pocket,  the  right  hand  rests 
easily  upon  the  hip.  The  top  button  of  the 
flannel  shirt  is  open,  showing  a  massive  throat. 
The  head,  inclined  slightly  toward  the  left,  is 
that  of  a  meditative,  handsome  man,  with  full 
steady  eyes,  sensuous,  wistful  mouth,  and  a 
close-trimmed  beard,  already  gray.  If  he  were 
really  "  one  of  the  roughs,"  this  portrait  might 
have  been  used  to  disprove  it.  It  presents  a 
poet  in  workman's  clothes,  and  the  flannel  shirt 
and  slouch  hat  are  as  clearly  symbolical  as 
George  Fox's  leathern  breeches,  or  the  peasant 
dress  of  Count  Tolstoi. 

Of  the  few  persons  who  examined  the  first 
edition  of  Leaves  of  Grass,  it  is  not  likely 
that  many  stopped  to  read  the  Preface,  —  a 
ten-page  essay  set  in  double  columns.  Yet  the 
book  is  scarcely  to  be  understood  without  it, 
and  in  the  long  list  of  dissertations  by  poets 
upon  the  nature  of  poetry,  it  would  be  difficult 
to  point  to  one  more  vigorous  and  impassioned, 
although  much  of  it  is  as  inconsecutive  as  the 
essays  of  Emerson  which  helped  to  inspire  it. 
Its  general  theme  is  the  inspiration  which  the 
United  States  offers  to  the  great  poet.  Amer- 


LEAVES  OF  GRASS  75 

ica  does  not  repel  the  past,  he  declares,  although 
the  life  has  gone  out  of  the  past.  Here,  in  this 
teeming  nation  of  nations,  is  the  fullest  poet- 
ical nature  known  to  history.  The  genius  of  the 
United  States  is  best  shown  in  the  common 
people,  and  the  American  poet  must  express 
their  life.  He  must  love  the  earth  and  sun  and 
the  animals,  despise  riches,  give  alms  to  every- 
one that  asks,  stand  up  for  the  stupid  and 
crazy.  He  must  reexamine  all  that  he  has  been 
told  at  school  or  church  or  in  any  book,  and 
dismiss  whatever  insults  his  own  soul.  Thus 
his  very  flesh  becomes  a  great  poem.  He  is 
at  one  with  the  universe,  and  feels  the  harmony 
of  things  with  man.  He  brings  all  things  to 
bear  upon  the  individual  character.  The  "art 
of  art"  is  simplicity;  it  is  to  speak  in  litera- 
ture with  the  perfect  rectitude  of  animals  and 
trees.  Thus  the  great  poet  is  marked  by  uncon- 
straint  and  defiance  of  precedent.  He  sees  that 
the  soul  is  as  great  as  anything  outside  of 
it ;  that  there  is  no  antagonism  between  poetry 
and  science,  or  between  the  natural  and  the 
supernatural,  —  everything  being  miraculous 
and  divine.  General  laws  rule,  and  these  make 
for  happiness.  The  poet,  furthermore,  must  be  a 
champion  of  political  liberty.  He  must  recognize 
that  the  actual  facts  of  the  American  republic 
are  superior  to  fiction  and  romance.  Candor 


76  WALT  WHITMAN 

and  absence  of  trickery  characterize  him.  His 
true  thrift  is  to  secure  the  things  of  the  soul. 

"Beyond  the  independence  of  a  little  sum 
laid  aside  for  burial  money,  and  of  a  few  clap- 
boards around  and  shingles  overhead  on  a  lot 
of  American  soil  owned,  and  the  easy  dollars 
that  supply  the  year's  plain  clothing  and  meals, 
the  melancholy  prudence  of  the  abandonment 
of  such  a  great  being  as  man  is,  to  the  toss 
and  pallor  of  years  of  money-making,  with  all 
their  scorching  days  and  icy  nights  and  all  their 
stifling  deceits  and  underhand  dodgings,  or  in- 
finitesimals of  parlors  or  shameless  stuffing  while 
others  starve  .  .  .  and  all  the  loss  of  the  bloom 
and  odor  of  the  earth  and  of  the  flowers  and 
atmosphere  and  of  the  sea  and  of  the  taste  of  the 
women  and  men  you  pass  or  have  to  do  with 
in  youth  or  middle  age,  and  the  issuing  sickness 
and  desperate  revolt  of  a  life  without  elevation 
or  naivete,  and  the  ghastly  chatter  of  a  death 
without  serenity  or  majesty,  is  the  great  fraud 
upon  modern  civilization."  .  .  . 

The  prudence  of  the  great  poet,  therefore,  re- 
cognizes that  the  judgment  day  is  here  and  now. 
He  must "  flood  himself  with  the  immediate  age." 
But  after  all,  the  final  test  of  poems  is  their  per- 
manence ;  they  are  a  beginning  rather  than  an 
ending.  The  work  of  the  priests  is  done.  Every 
man  shall  henceforth  be  his  own  priest,  finding 


LEAVES  OF  GRASS  77 

his  inspiration  in  the  real  objects  of  today,  in 
America.  The  English  language  —  "  the  speech 
of  the  proud  and  melancholy  races  and  of  all 
who  aspire  "  —  is  to  be  the  chosen  tongue.  The 
poems  distilled  from  other  poems  will  probably 
pass  away,  but  the  soul  of  the  nations  will  ad- 
vance half  way  to  meet  the  soul  of  its  true  poets. 
And  then  Whitman  closes  with  a  sentence,  which 
in  view  of  his  own  long  waiting  for  recognition 
is  not  without  pathos :  "  The  proof  of  a  poet  is 
that  his  country  absorbs  him  as  affectionately  as 
he  has  absorbed  it." 

Some  of  the  more  lyrical  passages  of  this 
eloquent  prelude  were  afterwards  remodeled 
into  verse  for  "  By  Blue  Ontario's  Shore  "  and 
other  poems.  It  now  appears  in  his  Prose 
Works,  but  was  never  again  prefaced  to  subse- 
quent editions  of  Leaves  of  Grass.  Even  the 
brief  summary  just  given  reveals  how  delib- 
erately and  with  what  ardor  of  faith  Whitman 
gave  himself  to  the  audacious  task  of  becoming 
in  his  own  person  the  representative  poet  of 
his  country.  Whatever  he  lacked,  it  was  not 
self-confidence. 

The  opening  words  of  the  new  evangel  were 
curious  enough :  — 

"  I  celebrate  myself, 

And  what  1  assume  you  shall  assume, 

For  every  atom  belonging  to  me  as  good  belongs  to  you. 


78  WALT   WHITMAN 

"  I  loafe  and  invite  my  soul, 

I  lean  and  loafe  at  my  ease  .  .  .  observing  a  spear  of 


summer  grass." 


These  individualistic  but  not  very  promising 
lines  introduced  a  piece  filling  forty-five  pages, 
or  considerably  more  than  half  the  volume,  not 
counting  the  preface.  Like  the  eleven  shorter 
pieces  which  followed  it,  it  had  no  title.  The 
words  Leaves  of  Grass  were,  in  fact,  repeated  at 
the  head  of  each  of  the  first  six  pieces,  the  remain- 
ing six  being  separated  only  by  a  printer's  orna- 
mental line.  But  this  long  first  poem  —  which  in 
the  second  edition  was  entitled  "  Poem  of  Walt 
Whitman,  an  American,"  'and  in  the  seventh  and 
subsequent  editions  "  Song  of  Myself  "  —  was 
fairly  typified  by  that  unashamed  "  I  celebrate 
myself."  For  it  was  about  the  man  Walt  Whit- 
man,—  his  body  and  his  soul,  his  ecstasies  in  the 
remembered  presence  of  beauty,  his  passionate 
sympathies  for  men  and  women,  his  curiosity  and 
transport  with  the  eternal  human  spectacle.  He 
identifies  himself  with  this  spectacle,  now  in  one 
aspect  of  it,  now  in  another :  becoming  in  imagi- 
nation the  hounded  slave,  the  fireman,  the  soldier 
and  sailor,  the  priest.  Everywhere  he  beholds 
God  :  out  of  death  he  sees  life  arising  ;  he  loses 
for  the  moment  personal  identity  to  become  one 
with  the  cloud  and  the  grass.  He  is  at  once  self- 
intoxicated  and  world-intoxicated  ;  he  cries  out, 


LEAVES  OF  GRASS  79 

now  with  inarticulate  rapture  and  agony,  now 
with  a  full-toned  Benedicite,  omnia  opera  Dom- 
ini! Praise  Him  and  magnify  Him  forever! 
Like  William  Blake,  he  asserts  that  "  Every- 
thing is  good  in  God's  eyes,"  and  he  would  not 
have  shrunk  from  Blake's  corollary,  *'  Collective 
man  is  God."  The  common  grass  of  the  field  is 
to  him  the  hieroglyphic  symbol  of  the  unutter- 
able mystery  that  lies  close  about  us.  The  reve- 
lation of  the  mystery  comes  through  the  passion- 
ate sense  of  union  with  the  beloved  ;  and  in  this 
physical  ecstasy  the  very  atmosphere,  the  wind 
and  the  leaves  and  the  brown  earth  have  a  share, 
so  that  they  in  turn  excite  or  soothe  the  aching 
senses  of  the  man.  As  by  the  ebb  and  flow  of 
the  tide,  the  universal  frame  of  things  thus  be- 
comes flooded  with  personality :  in  one  moment 
things  are  made  anthropomorphic,  and  in  the 
next  men  and  women  are  de-personalized  into 
scarcely  sentient  flesh.  Never  was  there  a 
stranger  pantheism,  —  flexible,  reversible  at 
will.  The  "  Song  of  Myself  "  is  full  of  sexual 
imagery,  and  the  constant  shifting  of  the  word 
"  I  "  from  its  individual  to  its  symbolic  mean- 
ing—  that  is,  from  the  actual  Walt  Whitman 
to  the  typical  human  being  whom  the  "I"  is 
often  used  to  represent  —  frequently  gives  this 
sexual  imagery  a  startling  character.  The  hu- 
man body  is  stripped  bare ;  and  in  the  emo- 


80  WALT  WHITMAN 

tional  frenzy  which  masters  the  poet,  the  conven- 
tions, and  occasionally  the  decencies,  are  clean 
forgotten.  Yet  these  passages,  offensive  as  they 
will  always  be  to  the  fastidious,  — "it  is  as  if  the 
beasts  spoke,"  said  Thoreau,  —  sprang  from  a 
profound  sense  of  the  germinal  forces  of  life.  It 
was  a  Titanic  endeavor  to  express  the  spirit  in 
terms  of  the  flesh.  It  was  predestined  to  partial 
failure,  not  only  because  that  feat  is  so  insuper- 
ably difficult,  but  also  because  Whitman  was 
after  his  fashion  a  philosopher  and  prophet  as 
well  as  a  poet,  and  this  was  a  task  calling  for 
pure  poetry. 

The  briefer  pieces 1  which  followed  the  "  Song 
of  Myself  "  were  not  so  much  separate  poems 
as  variations  upon  the  theme  announced  in  the 
first.  They  presented  different  aspects  of  human 
experience  as  envisaged  by  the  typical  person- 
ality already  portrayed.  In  this  sense  they  pre- 
sent a  certain  structural  unity,  and  their  com- 
parative brevity  made  them  more  easy  of  ap- 
prehension. "The  Sleepers,"  for  example,  could 
not  have  presented  any  real  difficulties  to  the 
reader  who  recalled  Professor  Teufelsdrock's 

1  Using-  the  present  titles,  these  were  "  A  Song  for  Occupa- 
tions," "  To  Think  of  Time,"  "  The  Sleepers,"  "  I  Sing  the 
Body  Electric,"  "  Faces,"  "  Song  of  the  Answerer,"  "  Europe," 
"  A  Boston  Ballad,"  "  There  was  a  Child  Went  Forth,"  "  Who 
Learns  my  Lesson  Complete,"  "  Great  are  the  Myths." 


LEAVES  OF  GRASS  81 

strange  vision  from  his  tower,  published  in  Sar- 
tor Resartus  more  than  twenty  years  before. 

In  fact,  a  reading  public  which  for  a  score  of 
years  had  been  familiar  with  many  types  of 
Romantic  and  Transcendental  extravagance,  and 
had  already  begun  to  react  from  them,  could  not 
have  been  so  much  amazed  by  the  contents  of 
Leaves  of  Grass  —  aside  from  its  frank  nudities 
—  as  by  its  eccentricities  of  form.  The  wide 
pages  of  the  1855  quarto  gave  Whitman's  long 
lines  a  dignity  unapproached  in  any  subsequent 
edition.  Yet  many  of  these  lines  were  obviously 
sentences  of  prose,  which,  like  the  three  opening 
lines  already  quoted,  contained  no  hint  of  poetry. 
There  was  no  use  of  rhyme  or  stanza.  There 
was  no  uniformly  recognizable  type  of  metre, 
although  many  passages  fell  into  regular  metri- 
cal beats.  Rhythm  could  indeed  be  felt,  as  in 
all  emotional  writing  whether  in  prose  or  verse ; 
but  the  rhythms  of  Leaves  of  Grass  had  been 
more  cunningly  modulated  and  disguised  than 
any  one  then  suspected.  To  most  readers,  no 
doubt,  the  poetical  intention  of  the  work  was 
more  apparent  than  the  poetical  pattern.  The 
raw  material  of  poetry  was  flung  in  with  a  liberal 
hand,  —  emotion,  imagination,  and  many  a  sing- 
ing word  or  phrase.  Cadences  rich  and  melan- 
choly, periods  full  and  orotund,  made  themselves 
instantly  recognized  by  the  attentive  reader. 


82  WALT  WHITMAN 

But  the  tunes  were  chiefly  those  of  passionate 
speech  rather  than  of  verse.  Sometimes  there 
were  memories  and  fragments  of  well-known 
metrical  forms. 

"  Downhearted  doubters,  dull  and  excluded  " 

is  a  line  of  pure  Anglo-Saxon  four-stressed  allit- 
erative verse.  Many  passages  are  composed  in 
a  sort  of  ruined  blank  verse,  like  that  employed 
by  late  Elizabethan  and  Jacobean  dramatists ; 
a  measure  so  broken  by  pauses,  by  fragmentary 
lines,  by  warfare  between  metrical  and  logical 
accent,  by  sheer  willfulness,  as  to  seem  of  the 
iambic  five-stressed  type  only  through  echo  and 
reminiscence.  Again,  there  are  single  lines  of 
dactylic  hexameter :  — 

"  The  married  and  unmarried  children  ride  home  to  their 
Thanksgiving  dinner." 

"  I  rise  ecstatic  through  all  and  sweep  with  the  true  grav- 
itation." 

Sometimes  this  dactylic  beat  continues  through 
more  than  the  normal  six  intervals,  as  in  the  sec- 
ond of  the  following  lines  :  — 

"  I  laughed  content  when  I  heard  the  voice  of  my  little 

captain, 
We  have  not  struck,  he  composedly  cried,  we  have  just 

begun  our  part  of  the  fighting.  " 

Frequently  the  ear  catches  the  measure  of  the 
six-foot  anapest  which  Tennyson  used  so  often 


LEAVES  OF  GRASS  83 

in  his  later  poetry,  —  either  in  its  normal  form, 
as  when  Whitman  writes  :  — 

"And  I  know  that  the  hand  of  God  is  the  elder  hand  of 
my  own  ;  " 

"  And  reached  till  you  felt  my  beard  and  reached  till  you 
held  my  feet;" 

or  disguised  by  substitution,  as 

"  Dark  to  come  from  under  the  faint  red  roofs  of  mouths." 

It  was  evident  that,  however  freely  Whitman 
made  use  of  lines  or  paragraphs  of  sheer  prose, 
the  closing  cadences  of  most  of  the  poems  had 
been  constructed  with   the  utmost   care.    Very 
characteristic  are  these  final  lines  :  — 
"  Smile,  for  your  lover  comes  !  " 
"  It  is  nearer  and  further  than  they." 
"And  that  was  a  jet  black  sunrise." 

Yet  the  rhythmical  structure  of  Leaves  of 
Grass  is  scarcely  to  be  apprehended  through 
the  metrical  analysis  of  single  lines.  Whitman 
composed  —  and  in  this  respect,  at  least,  he 
resembled  the  great  masters  of  blank  verse  — 
with  reference  to  the  group,  or  paragraph  of 
lines,  and  not  merely  to  the  single  unit.  If  read 
aloud,  page  after  page,  the  general  rhythmic 
type  makes  itself  felt.  It  is  highly  individual, 
and  yet  it  is  clearly  related  to  other  well-recog- 
nized modes  of  impassioned  literary  expression. 


84  WALT  WHITMAN 

On  one  side  it  touches  the  "prose  poetry" 
of  Carlyle  and  Emerson,  De  Quincey  and  Poe, 
—  writers  with  whom  Whitman  was  familiar, 
and  some  of  whom  he  had  imitated  in  his  earlier 
productions.  Passages  from  Sartor  Resartus 
and  from  Emerson's  Essays  have  frequently 
been  rearranged  typographically,  without  any 
verbal  alteration  whatever,  so  as  to  look  and 
sound  like  passages  from  Leaves  of  Grass.  It 
is  well  known  that  Ruskin,  for  example,  brought 
this  rhythm  of  "  prose  poetry  "  so  near  to  actual 
metre,  that  the  transposition  of  a  few  words, 
and  the  addition  or  subtraction  of  a  syllable 
here  and  there  would  turn  his  prose  into  verse. 
William  Cairns  has  pointed  out  in  the  London 
Chronicle  how  easily  the  following  passage  from 
Ruskin's  Notes  on  Turner  resolves  itself  into 
hexameters :  — 

" '  Morning  breaks  as  I  write,  along  those 
Coniston  Fells,  and  the  level  mists,  motionless 
and  gray  beneath  the  rose  of  the  moorlands, 
veil  the  lower  woods,  and  the  sleeping  village, 
and  the  long  lawns  by  the  lake  shore.  Oh,  that 
some  one  had  but  told  me  in  my  youth,  when  all 
my  heart  seemed  to  be  set  on  these  colors  and 
clouds,  that  appear  for  a  little  while,  and  then 
vanish  away,  how  little  my  love  of  them  would 
serve  me,  when  the  silence  of  lawn  and  wood  in 
the  dews  of  morning  should  be  completed ;  and 


LEAVES  OF  GRASS  85 

all  my  thoughts  should  be  of  those  whom,  by 
neither,  I  was  to  meet  more.' 

"  ;  Morning  breaks  as  I  write,  o'er  the  Collision  Fells,  and 
the  level, 

Motionless  mists  lie  gray  beneath  the  rose  of  the  moor- 
lands, 

Veiling  the  lower  woods,  the  lake,  and  the  slumbering 
village. 

Oh,  had  some  friend  in  the  days  when  my  heart,  in  youth- 
ful emotion, 

Seemed  to  be  set  on  these  colors  and  clouds  which  appear 
but  to  vanish, 

Warned  me  how  little  my  love  of  their  fast-fading  beauty 
would  serve,  when 

Deep  and  profound  over  woodland  and  lake  in  the  dews 
of  the  morning, 

Rested  a  silence  complete  ;  and  the  thoughts  which  beset 
me  should  ever 

Dwell  on  those  I  should  never  meet  more,  or  by  lake  or 
by  woodland.' " 

The  ease  of  this  transition  from  skillful,  if 
dangerous,  prose  to  mediocre  verse  proves  the 
delicacy  of  Ruskin's  ear,  and  the  sharp  aesthetic 
differentiation  between  rhythmical  effect  and 
metrical  effect. 

Again,  the  heightened  passages  of  oratory 
tend,  in  proportion  to  their  impassioned  quality, 
to  fall  into  regular  stress.  The  natural  orators 
to  whom  Whitman  loved  to  listen  were  fond  of  the 
heavily  accented  periods,  which,  like  the  cadences 
of  prose  poetry,  approximate,  without  quite  reach- 


86  WALT  WHITMAN 

ing,  metrical  regularity.  Often,  indeed,  in  ora- 
tors of  florid  taste,  —  precisely  as  in  the  pathetic 
passages  of  Dickens,  — the  rhythm  slips  over  into 
unconscious  iambics.  Whitman's  friend,  Robert 
G.  Ingersoll,  a  well-known  popular  orator,  once 
described  the  old  classic  myths,  in  a  glowing 
sentence  which  has  been  printed  1  without  change 
as  verse :  — 

"They  thrilled  the  veins  of  Spring  with  tremulous  de- 
sire ; 
Made  tawny  Summer's  billowed  hreast  the  throne  and 

home  of  Love  ; 

Filled  Autumn's  arms  with  sun-kissed  grapes  and  gath- 
ered sheaves  ; 

And  pictured  Winter  as  a  weak  old  king, 
Who  felt,  like  Lear,  upon  his  withered  face, 
Cordelia's  tears." 

Whitman  utilized  freely  the  characteristic  ef- 
fects of  both  "  prose  poetry  "  and  oratory,  but  he 
varied  these  effects  not  only  with  prose  rhythms, 
but  with  the  tunes  of  lyric  poetry.  He  admitted, 
furthermore,  his  indebtedness  to  music  as  sug- 
gesting rhythmical  variations.  He  told  Mrs. 
Fanny  Raymond  Ritter  that  more  of  his  poems 
were  actually  inspired  by  music  than  he  himself 
could  remember.  He  frequently  compared  his 
interweaving  of  lyric  with  descriptive  passages 
to  the  alternating  aria  and  recitative  of  an  ora- 
torio. Thafc  his  senses  were  peculiarly  responsive 

1  By  Michael  Mouahan,  iu  The  Papyrus. 


LEAVES   OF  GRASS  87 

to  all  suggestions  of  movement  seems  clear. 
Professor  F.  N.  Scott l  notes  "  his  delicate  sus- 
ceptibility to  certain  modes  of  motion  and  se- 
quences of  sound,"  particularly  the  free,  swaying, 
"  urging,"  motions  of  the  ferry-boat,  the  railroad 
train,  the  flight  of  birds  ;  and,  among  sounds, 
those  of  the  wind,  the  locusts  in  the  tree-tops 
and  the  sea.2 

In  endeavoring  to  analyze  his  own  metrical 
system  Whitman  selected  the  analogy  of  the 
waves.  In  a  striking  self-criticism,  later  to  be 
quoted  at  length,  he  declared  :  — 

"He  dismisses  without  ceremony  all  the  or- 
thodox accoutrements,  tropes,  verbal  haberdash- 
ery, '  feet '  and  the  entire  stock  in  trade  of 
rhyme  -  talking  heroes  and  heroines  and  all  the 
lovesick  plots  of  customary  poetry,  and  con- 
structs his  verse  in  a  loose  and  free  metre  of  his 
own,  of  an  irregular  length  of  lines,  apparently 
lawless  at  first  perusal,  although  on  closer  ex- 
amination a  certain  regularity  appears,  like  the 
recurrence  of  lesser  and  larger  waves  on  the  sea- 

1  In  an  unpublished  paper  entitled  "A  Note  on  Walt  Whit- 
man's Prosody." 

2  An    interesting1    supplement  to  this  is  Horace  Traubel's 
note  about  Whitman's  friendships  :  "  He  affected  pilots,  deck- 
hands, transportation  men,  almost  in  mass  the  creatures  of 
movement."  Paul  Elmer  More,  in  a  critical  essay  on  Whitman, 
remarks  that  the  most  constant  and  characteristic  of  his  quali- 
ties is  the  sense  of  ceaseless  indistinct  motion. 


88  WALT  WHITMAN 

shore,  rolling  in  without  intermission,  and  fit- 
Fully  rising  and  falling."  l 

"  Make  this  more  rhythmical "  is  one  of  the 
admonitions  written  in  Whitman's  notebook  dur- 
ing the  Leaves  of  Grass  period.  That  sentence 
is  typical  of  the  unending  labor  with  which  he 
wrought  at  the  cadences  of  his  long  irregular 
lines,  until  they  suited  his  ear.  He  was  making 
careful  notes  upon  English  prosody  at  the  same 
time,  and  knew  something  of  what  he  was  reject- 
ing, in  his  striving  after  a  greater  freedom  and 
"  naturalness."  Whitman's  impatience  with  the 
real  or  supposed  restraints  of  formal  art  coin- 
cided, in  fact,  with  the  instinct  for  the  "  return 
to  nature "  which  had  already  been  potent  for 
more  than  a  generation.  William  Blake,  for  ex- 
ample, in  the  preface  to  one  of  those  Prophetic 
Books  which  he  composed  in  a  language  that 
was  neither  verse  nor  prose,  declared  :  "  When 
this  verse  was  first  dictated  to  me  I  consider'd  a 
Monotonous  Cadence  like  that  used  by  Milton 
&  Shakspeare,  &  all  writers  of  English  Blank 
Verse,  derived  from  the  modern  bondage  of 

1  Compare  Professor  Scott's  independent  description,  in  the 
paper  already  quoted.  "  The  Whitmanian  line  consists,  like 
the  prose  sentence,  of  an  advancing  and  retreating  wave.  He 
varied  the  length  of  these  waves,  varied  the  speech  rhythm  to 
coincide  or  conflict  with  the  routine  scansion,  introduced  mi- 
nor waves  and  impulses  and  used  alliteration  and  refrain.  .  .  . 
He  is  fairly  regular  in  observing  his  own  prosodic  rules.  " 


LEAVES    OF  GRASS  89 

Rhyming  to  be  a  necessary  and  indispensible  part 
of  the  verse.  But  I  soon  found  that  in  the 
mouth  of  a  true  Orator,  such  monotony  was  not 
only  awkward,  but  as  much  a  bondage  as  rhyme 
itself.  I  therefore  have  produced  a  variety  in 
every  line,  both  of  cadences  &  number  of  sylla- 
bles. Every  word  and  every  letter  is  studied  and 
put  into  its  fit  place:  the  terrific  numbers  are 
reserved  for  the  terrific  parts,  the  mild  &  gentle 
for  the  mild  &  gentle  parts,  and  the  prosaic  for 
inferior  parts :  all  are  necessary  to  each  other. 
Poetry  Fetter'd  Fetters  the  Human  Race !  "  1 

This  was  doctrine  after  Whitman's  own  heart, 
and  it  was  more  widely  accepted  in  the  middle 
of  the  nineteenth  century,  both  in  England  and 
America,  than  most  present-day  readers  suspect. 
Among  the  New  England  Transcendentalists 
strict  poetic  form  was  often  looked  upon  as  a 
barrier,  rather  than  an  aid  to  expression.  The 
private  journals  of  Thoreau  and  Emerson  are 
full  of  rhapsodical  passages,  the  first  drafts  for 
poems,  which  illustrate  a  metrical  and  rhythmical 
lawlessness  that  was  in  the  very  air,  although 
the  classical  training  of  Thoreau  and  Emerson 
doubtless  made  them  hesitate  to  print  these 
fresh,  formless  transcripts  of  emotional  experi- 

1  Blake's  Poetical  Works,  edited  by  John  Sampson,  Oxford, 
1905,  p.  327. 


90  WALT  WHITMAN 

ence. *  There  were  at  least  two  books,  widely  read 
during  the  fifties  and  on  the  shelves  of  many  a 
family  that  did  not  own  a  Shakespeare,  which 
seemed  to  prove  that  conventional  poetic  form 
was  a  negligible  element  in  securing  an  emo- 
tional effect.  One  was  Macpherson's  Poems  of 
Ossian,  which  Whitman  had  declaimed  by  the 
seashore  in  his  youth,  and  which  he  read  through- 
out his  life.  The  prefatory  dissertation  upon 
Macpherson's  skill  as  a  translator  asserts :  — 

"  The  measured  prose  which  he  has  employed 
possesses  considerable  advantages  above  any  sort 
of  versification  he  could  have  chosen.  While  it 
pleases  and  fills  the  ear  with  a  variety  of  harmon- 
ious cadences,  being,  at  the  same  time,  freer  from 
constraint  in  the  choice  and  arrangement  of  words, 
it  allows  the  spirit  of  the  original  to  be  exhibited, 
with  more  justness,  force  and  simplicity." 2  This 
was  from  the  pen  of  the  "  elegant "  Hugh  Blair, 
Professor  of  Belles  Lettres  at  Edinburgh. 

A  more  cogent  example  of  the  popular  success 
then  attained  by  a  composition  lacking  rhyme, 
metre,  and  indeed  rhythm  —  except  such  as  in- 
heres in  its  Biblical  phraseology  —  was  presented 

1  See   the   notes   to   the   Centenary  Edition  of  Emerson's 
Poems,  pp.   171,  242,  247.   The  MISS,  of  unfinished  poems  by 
Sidney  Lanier  illustrate  the  same  impulse. 

2  Poems  of  Ossian.  Boston:  Phillips,  Sampson  &  Co.,  1849, 
p.  180. 


LEAVES  OF  GRASS  91 

to  Whitman  in  Tapper's  Proverbial  Philosophy. 
Tiresome  as  they  seem  to-day,  those  jejune  pages 
certainly  satisfied  the  aBsthetic  requirements  of 
countless  readers  who  felt  that  they  were  read- 
ing "  poetry."  Take,  for  instance,  this  passage, 
which  illustrates  the  enumerative  method  which 
Whitman  loved.1 

"  Where  are  the  nobles  of  Nineveh,  and  mitred  rulers  of 

Babylon  ? 
Where  are  the  lords  of  Edom,  and  the  royal  pontiffs  of 

Thebais  ? 
The  golden  Satrap,  and  the  Tetrarch,  —  the  Hun,  and  the 

Druid,  and  the  Celt  ? 
The  merchant  princes  of  Pho3nicia,  and  the  minds  that 

fashioned  Elephauta  ? 
Alas,  for  the  poet  hath  forgotten  them  ;  and  lo  !  they  are 

outcasts  of  Memory  ; 
Alas,  that  they  are   withered  leaves,  sapless  and  fallen 

from  the  chaplet  of  fame. 
Speak,  Etruria,  whose  bones  be  these,  entombed  with 

costly  care,  — 
Tell  out,  Herculaneum,  the  titles  that  have  sounded  in 

those  thy  palaces,  — 
Lycian  Zanthus,  thy  citadels  are  mute,  and  the  honour  of 

their  architects  hath  died  ; 
Copan  and  Palenque,  dreamy  ruins  in  the  West,  the  forest 

hath  swallowed  up  your  sculptures  ; 
Syracuse,  —  how  silent  of  the  past  !  —  Carthage,  thou  art 

blotted  from  remembrance  ! 

*  Tupper's  Proverbial  Philosophy.  Boston  :  Phillips,  Samp- 
son &  Co.,  1854,  p.  142.  Other  interesting  parallelisms  with 
Whitman's  methods  may  be  found  on  pp.  17,  27, 77, 130, 147,  etc. 


92  WALT  WHITMAN 

Egypt,  wondrous  shores,  ye  are  buried  in  the  sandhill  of 
forgetfulness  !  " 

A  far  more  striking  model  of  rhythmical  prose 
masking  as  poetry  was  also  at  hand.  Samuel 
Warren,  the  author  of  the  Blackwood  novel  Ten 
Thousand  a  Year,  which  was  immensely  popu- 
lar on  both  sides  of  the  Atlantic,  published  in 
1851  a  "  Lyrical  Soliloquy  "  in  commemoration 
of  the  Crystal  Palace  exhibition.  Its  title  was 
The  Lily  and  the  Bee.1  It  describes  a  day,  a 
night,  and  an  early  morning  passed  in  the 
Crystal  Palace,  but  its  real  subject,  the  author 
declares,  is  "  Man  —  a  unity."  Into  its  rhyth- 
mic structure,  which  is  prevalently  iambic,  are 
woven  passages  from  the  Bible,  Milton,  Shake- 
speare, and  Wordsworth.  It  uses  almost  every 
stylistic  device  now  identified  with  Walt  Whit- 
man,—  catalogue,  ejaculation,  apostrophe,  epi- 
thet, and  high  astounding  term.  As  the  imagin- 
ation of  the  author  roves  from  country  to  coun- 
try, he  exclaims :  — 

"  In  dusky,  rainless  EGYPT  now  ! 

Mysterious  memories  come  crowding  round  — 

1  Reprinted  promptly  in  America  by  Harpers,  and  reviewed 
in  Harper's  Monthly  in  November,  1851.  Later  it  was  included 
in  a  new  edition  of  Warren's  essays,  entitled  Now  and  Then.  It 
will  be  found  in  vol.  iv  of  Warren's  Collected  Works,  Edinburgh 
edition. 


LEAVES  OF  GRASS  93 

From  misty  Mizraim  to  Ibrahim  — 

Abraham  !  Joseph  !  Pharaoh's  Plagues  ! 

Shepherd  Kings  !  Sesostris  ! 

Cambyses  !  Xerxes  !  Alexander  !  Ptolemies  !  Antony  ! 
Cleopatra  !  Caesar  — 

Isis  !  Osiris  !  Temples  !  Sphinxes  !  Obelisks  !  Alexandria  ! 

The  Pyramids. 

The  Nile  ! 

NAPOLEON  !  NELSON  ! 

—  Behold,  my  son,  quoth  the  Royal  Mother,  this  ancient 
wondrous  country  —  destined  scene  of  mighty  do- 
ings —  perchance  of  conflict,  deadly,  tremendous, 
such  as  the  world  has  never  seen,  nor  warrior 
dreamed  of. 

Even  now  the  attracting  centre  of  world-wide  anxieties. 

On  this  spot  see  settled  the  eyes  of  sleepless  Statesmen  — 

Lo  !  a  British  engineer,  even  while  I  speak,  connects  the 
Red  Sea  with  the  Mediterranean  :  Alexandria  and 
Cairo  made  as  one  — 

Behold  Napoleon,  deeply  intent  on  the  great  project ! 

See  him,  while  the  tide  of  the  Red  Sea  is  out,  on  the  self- 
same sites  traversed  three  thousand  years  before 
by  the  children  of  Israel  ! 

He  drinks  at  the  Wells  of  Moses,  at  the  foot  of  Mount 
Sinai  : 

He  returns  and  so  the  tide :  The  shades  of  night  approach  : 
behold  the  hero,  just  whelmed  beneath  the  waters — 
even  like  the  ancient  Pharaoh  !  — 

Had  such  event  been  willed  on  high  !  "  — 

Then,  after  passing  by  various  nations,  includ- 
ing 

"Prussia,  proud,  learned,  thoughtful,  martial !  "  — 

a  line  that  one  would  instinctively  ascribe  to 


94  WALT  WHITMAN 

Whitman  even  if  one  found  it  in  an  Egyptian 

tomb  —  we  return  to  the  author,  pacing  through 

the  aisles :  — 

"  A  unit  unperceived, 

I  sink  into  the  living  stream  again  !  — 

Nave,  transept,  aisles  and  Galleries, 

Pacing  untired  :  insatiate  ! 

Touchstone  of  character  !  capacity  !  and  knowledge  ! 

Spectacle,  now  lost  in  the  Spectators  :  then  spectators  in 
the  spectacle  ! 

Rich  :  poor  :  gentle  :  simple  :  wise  :  foolish  :  young : 
old  :  learned  :  ignorant :  thoughtful :  thoughtless : 
haughty  :  humble  :  frivolous  :  profound  : 

Every  grade  of  intellect :  every  shade  of  character  1 

Now  he  is  speaking  with  brother  engineers —  English, 
French,  German,  Russian  —  showing  the  Hydraulic 
Press,  which  raised  to  the  height  of  a  hundred  feet 
huge  tubes  of  iron  two  thousand  tons  in  weight : 
now  the  French  Turbine  :  the  centrifugal  pump  : 
the  steam-hammer  —  oh,  mighty  Steam  ! 

—  Here  behold  Power  ! 

Exact  :  docile  :  delicate  :  tremendous  in  operation  : 
dealing,  easily,  alike  with  filmy  gossamer  lace,  silk, 
flax,  hemp,  cotton,  granite,  iron  ! " 

After  another  sweep  through  history  — 

"Glorious  De  Bouillon  Here  ! 

Famed  warrior  of  the  Cross  !  Conqueror  of  Ascalon  ! 

Captor  of   Jerusalem  1  Hero  of  dazzling  darkened 

Tasso's  song  !  "  — 

we  are  brought  back  again,  in  true  Whitman 
style,  to  the  author,  who,  apparently,  as  Walt 
once  said  of  himself, 


LEAVES  OF  GRASS  95 

"  Stands  amused,  complacent,  compassionate,  idle,  unitary, 

Booking  with  side-curved  head  curious  what  will  come 

next, 
£oth  in  and  out  of  the  game  and  watching  and  wondering 

at  it." 

And  thus  the  author  ejaculates :  — 

"  Poor  Bee  !  Dost  thou  see  ME  ? 

And  note  my  speculations, 

Thinking  so  curiously,  all  so  confident  I 

Of  thee,  thy  Being,  Doings  ! 

—  MYSELF  !  the  While  ! 

Unconsciously  contemplated  by  Intelligence,  unseen  ! 

Transcending  mortal  man 

Yet  far  himself  from  the  Supreme 

As  finite  from  the  Infinite  ! 

This  moment  loftily  scanning  ME, 

Suspending  for  awhile  his  cares  sublime, 

And  gazing  down  on  ME, 

On  all  MY  Fellows  clustering  round 

In  this  our  Hive, 

Of  fancied  splendour  !  vastness  ! " 

It  would  be  hard  to  find  a  more  curious  liter- 
ary parallel  to  the  structure  of  Leaves  of  Grass. 
Whitman's  fidelity  to  his  own  programme  — 
"make  no  quotations  and  no  reference  to  any 
other  writers  " — forbids  us  to  trace  many  of  his 
"  source-books,"  and  it  may  never  be  known 
whether  he  had  read  The  Lily  and  the  Bee  be- 
fore giving  the  final  shape  to  his  1855  edition. 
He  might  easily  have  taken  hints  from  it,  —  and 


96  WALT  WHITMAN 

I  think  it  probable  that  he  did,  —  but  a  man  of 
his  inventive  power  did  not  need  more  than 
hints. 

His  own  essential  model,  after  all  is  said,  was 
the  rhythmical  patterns  of  the  English  Bible. 
Here  was  precisely  that  natural  stylistic  varia- 
tion between  the  "  terrific,"  the  "  gentle,"  and  the 
"inferior"  parts,  so  desired  by  William  Blake. 
Here  were  lyric  fragments,  of  consummate 
beauty,  imbedded  in  narrative  or  argumentative 
passages.  The  parallelism  which  constituted  the 
peculiar  structural  device  of  Hebrew  poetry  gave 
the  English  of  the  King  James  version  a  height- 
ened rhythm  without  destroying  the  flexibility 
and  freedom  natural  to  prose.  In  this  strong, 
rolling  music,  this  intense  feeling,  these  concrete 
words  expressing  primal  emotions  in  daring 
terms  of  bodily  sensation,1  Whitman  found  the 
charter  for  the  book  he  wished  to  write. 

As  a  whole,  therefore,  Leaves  of  Grass  be- 
longed to  no  one  accepted  type  of  poetry.  It 
was  a  hybrid,  with  something  of  the  hybrid's 
exotic  and  disturbing  charm.  Whitman  spoke  of 
it  afterwards  as  "a  new  and  national  declama- 
tory expression,"  and  of  his  three  adjectives 
the  last  is  the  most  weighty.  Leaves  of  Grass  — 
whatever  else  it  may  have  been  —  was  superb 

1  Compare  Thoreau's  dictum  :  "  The  poet  writes  the  history 
of  his  body."  Thoreau's  Journal  for  Sept.  29,  1851. 


LEAVES  OF  GRASS  97 

declamation.  It  was  so  full  of  poetry  that  to 
deny  it  the  name  of  "  poem  "  is  pedantic ;  yet 
"  rhapsody  "  is  a  more  closely  descriptive  word. 
To  interpret  as  formal  song  what  was  intended 
for  rhapsodical  speech  is  to  misread  Walt  Whit- 
man. Here  was  no  born  maker  of  poetry,  like 
Shelley,  transforming  his  thought  and  emotions 
into  a  new  medium  and  scarcely  conscious  of  the 
miracle  he  is  achieving ;  but  rather  a  man  bur- 
dened with  sensations,  wrestling  with  language, 
and  forcing  it  into  accents  that  are  like  the 
beating  of  his  own  tumultuous  heart.  Both 
Shelley  and  Whitman  "communicate"  passion; 
but  in  one  case  we  are  listening  to  a  pure  aria 
that  might  conceivably  issue  from  a  violin  or  a 
skylark,  while  in  the  other  we  are  listening  to  a 
declaimer  with  "  Tears  in  his  eyes,  distraction 
in's  aspect."  Not  to  apprehend  Leaves  of  Grass 
as  a  man  speaking  is  to  miss  its  purport. 

The  Leaves  of  Grass  of  1855  bore  no  pub- 
lishers' imprint,  and  it  was  not  "  published  "  in 
any  formal  way.  An  edition  of  a  thousand  copies 
was  planned,  but  only  about  eight  hundred  seem 
actually  to  have  been  printed.  Copies  were  placed 
on  sale  in  a  few  bookstores  in  New  York, 
Brooklyn  and  Boston ;  press  copies  went  to  the  im- 
portant periodicals,  and  complimentary  ones  to 
various  men  of  letters.  Then  came  the  tragedy 
of  hope  deferred.  There  were  practically  no 


98  WALT  WHITMAN 

sales.  In  his  old  age  Whitman  used  to  refer 
good-naturedly  to  the  one  man  who  actually 
bought  a  copy  of  the  1855  edition.  The  facts 
were  really  not  quite  so  bad  as  that,  but  they 
were  bad  enough.1  The  indifference  began  in 
the  author's  own  household.  "  I  saw  the  book," 
remarked  Walt's  brother  George,  — 2"  did  n't 
read,  it  at  all  —  did  n't  think  it  worth  reading 
—  fingered  it  a  little.  Mother  thought  as  I 
did  —  did  not  know  what  to  make  of  it.  ... 
I  remember  mother  comparing  Hiawatha 3  to 
Walt's,  and  the  one  seemed  to  us  pretty  much 
the  same  muddle  as  the  other.  Mother  said  that 
if  Hiawatha  was  poetry,  perhaps  Walt's  was." 
Walter  Whitman  the  elder  died,  aged  sixty-six, 
on  July  11,  the  very  month  that  marks  the  first 
issue  of  Leaves  of  Grass.  What  he  thought  of 
his  son's  production  is  not  recorded.  Ten  days 
after  his  death,  one  of  the  presentation  copies 
of  Leaves  of  Grass  received  this  most  gratify- 
ing acknowledgment :  — 

1  The  copy  before  me  was  purchased  from  James  T.  Fields, 
at  the  Old  Corner  Bookstore  in  Boston,  on  Emerson's  recom- 
mendation, by  William  F.  Channing.    He   presented  it  to   his 
sister-in-law,   later  the   wife   of   W.  D.  O'Connor,  of   whom 
much  is  hereafter  to  be  said.    It  is  probable  that  Theodore 
Parker's  copy,  now   in   the    Boston  Public  Library,  was  also 
purchased  at  the  Old  Corner  Bookstore.   Both  of  these  copies 
bear  many  admiring  pencil-marks. 

2  See  In  Be  Walt  Whitman,  p.  35. 

8  Longfellow's  poem  was  published  in  November,  1855. 


LEAVES  OF  GRASS  99 

CONCORD,  MASS.,  July  21st,  1835. 

DEAR  SIR,  —  I  am  not  blind  to  the  worth  of 
the  wonderful  gift  of  Leaves  of  Grass.  I  find 
it  the  most  extraordinary  piece  of  wit  and  wis- 
dom that  America  has  yet  contributed.  I  am 
very  happy  in  reading  it,  as  great  power  makes 
us  happy.  It  meets  the  demand  I  am  always 
making  of  what  seems  the  sterile  and  stingy  Na- 
ture, as  if  too  much  handiwork  or  too  much 
lymph  in  the  temperament  were  making  our 
Western  wits  fat  and  mean.  I  give  you  joy  of 
your  free  and  brave  thought.  I  have  great  joy 
in  it.  I  find  incomparable  things,  said  incom- 
parably well,  as  they  must  be.  I  find  the  cour- 
age of  treatment  which  so  delights  us,  and 
which  large  perception  only  can  inspire. 

I  greet  you  at  the  beginning  of  a  great  ca- 
reer, which  yet  must  have  had  a  long  foreground 
somewhere,  for  such  a  start.  I  rubbed  my  eyes 
a  little  to  see  if  this  sunbeam  were  no  illusion ; 
but  the  solid  sense  of  the  book  is  a  sober  cer- 
tainty. It  has  the  best  merits,  namely,  of  for- 
tifying and  encouraging. 

I  did  not  know,  until  I  last  night  saw  the  book 
advertised  in  a  newspaper,  that  I  could  trust  the 
name  as  real  and  available  for  a  post-office. 

I  wish  to  see  my  benefactor,  and  have  felt 
much  like  striking  my  tasks,  and  visiting  New 
York  to  pay  you  my  respects. 

R.  W.  EMERSON. 


100  WALT  WHITMAN 

Truer  or  more  valued  praise  than  this  there 
could  not  be,  and  it  is  not  strange  that  Whit- 
man was,  as  his  brother  George  said,  "  set  up." 
But  Emerson's  letter  remained  for  a  long  time 
the  only  one  of  its  tenor.  Whittier,  it  is  said, 
threw  his  presentation  copy  of  Leaves  of  Grass 
into  the  fire ;  and  other  men  of  letters  angrily 
returned  their  copies  to  the  donor.  The  reviews 
in  newspapers  and  other  periodicals  were  as  di- 
vergent as  possible.  Thanks  to  Whitman's  un- 
wearied interest  in  collecting  press  clippings 
about  himself,  many  of  these  reviews  were  pub- 
lished in  an  appendix  to  the  1856  edition,  and 
elsewhere.1  Other  notices,  hitherto  uncollected, 
may  easily  be  traced  in  the  files  of  periodicals 
of  that  day.  Some  were  utterly  condemnatory. 
The  New  York  Criterion 2  characterized  the  book 
as  "  muck  "  and  "  obscenity  ; "  the  London  Critic 
declared  that  "  Walt  Whitman  is  as  unac- 
quainted with  art  as  a  hog  is  with  mathematics," 
and  that  one  page  "  deserves  nothing  so  richly 
as  the  public  executioner's  whip."  The  Boston 
Intelligencer  comments  upon  its  u  bombast, 
egotism,  vulgarity  and  nonsense,"  and  the  Boston 

1  Leaves  of  Grass  Imprints  was  a   collection  of  such  no- 
tices issued  by  Whitman's  publishers,  Thayer   and  Eldridge, 
Boston,  June,  1860. 

2  On   O'Connor's  copy   of   Leaves   of  Grass   Imprints   this 
notice  is  credited  to  R.  W.  Griswold. 


LEAVES  OF  GRASS  101 

Post  upon  its  "exulting  audacity  of  Priapus- 
worshipping  obscenity." 

The  Boston  Christian  Examiner  uses  the 
phrases  "  impious  libidinousness  "  and  "  Ithy phal- 
lic audacity."  The  tone  of  such  comments  is 
fairly  representative  of  most  of  the  briefer  no- 
tices which  the  book  received.  But  in  many 
quarters  it  elicited  thoughtful  and  suggestive 
criticism.  The  North  American  Review,  at  that 
time  published  in  Boston,  under  the  editor- 
ship of  Andrew  P.  Peabody,  printed  in  January, 
1856,  an  unsigned  review  by  Edward  Everett 
Hale.  He  spoke  of  the  "  freshness,  simplicity  and 
reality"  of  the  book,  "clad  in  the  simplest,  truest 
and  often  the  most  nervous  English  ;  "  of  "  the 
wonderful  sharpness  and  distinctness  of  his  ima- 
gination ; "  and  affirmed  that  "  there  is  not  a 
word  in  it  meant  to  attract  readers  by  its  gross- 
ness."  It  is  interesting  to  note  that  Dr.  Hale 
reaffirmed  this  judgment  more  than  thirty  years 
afterward.1 

The  New  York  Crayon,  founded  not  long  be- 
fore by  the  talented  journalist  and  artist  W.  J. 
Stillinan,  printed  under  the  title  "  The  Assem- 
bly of  Extremes  "  a  joint  review  of  Tennyson's 
Maud  and  Whitman's  Leaves  of  Grass.  The 
critic  finds  both  poets  too  nonchalant  of  forms ; 

1  See  W.  S.  Kennedy's  Reminiscences  of  Walt  Whitman, 
London  and  Paisley,  1896. 


102  WALT  WHITMAN 

and  then  passes  to  this  clear  statement  of  one 
result  of  Whitman's  optimism  :  "  To  Walt  W'hit- 
man,  all  things  are  alike  good  —  nothing  is  bet- 
ter than  another,  and  thence  there  is  no  ideal, 
no  aspiration,  no  progress  to  things  better.  It  is 
not  enough  that  all  things  are  good,  all  things 
are  equally  good,  and,  therefore,  there  is  no 
order  in  creation ;  no  better,  no  worse,  —  but  all 
is  a  democratic  level,  from  which  can  come  no 
symmetry,  in  which  there  is  no  head,  no  subordi- 
nation, no  system,  and,  of  course,  no  result.  With 
a  wonderful  vigor  of  thought  and  intensity  of 
perception,  a  power,  indeed,  not  often  found, 
Leaves  of  Grass  has  no  ideality,  no  concentra- 
tion, no  purpose — it  is  barbarous,  undisciplined, 
like  the  poetry  of  a  half-civilized  people,  and,  as 
a  whole,  useless,  save  to  those  miners  of  thought 
who  prefer  the  metal  in  its  unworked  state." 
Whether  one  agrees  with  it  or  not,  this  is  surely 
criticism  of  a  stimulating  sort. 

Putnam's  Monthly  for  September,  1855, 
speaks  of  "  a  curious  and  lawless  collection  of 
poems  .  .  .  neither  in  rhyme  or  blank  verse, 
but  in  a  sort  of  excited  prose,  broken  into  lines 
without  any  attempt  at  measure  or  regularity. " 
The  poems  themselves,  the  critic  continues,  with 
a  shrewd  perception  of  Whitman's  indebtedness 
to  his  forerunners,  "  may  briefly  be  described 
as  a  compound  of  the  New  England  transcen- 


LEAVES  OF  GRASS  103 

dentalist  and  New  York  rowdy.  A  fireman  or 
omnibus  driver,  who  had  intelligence  enough  to 
absorb  the  speculations  of  that  school  of  thought 
which  culminated  at  Boston  some  fifteen  or  eight- 
een years  ago,  and  resources  of  expression  to  put 
them  forth  again  in  a  form  of  his  own,  with 
sufficient  self-conceit  and  contempt  for  public 
taste  to  affront  all  usual  propriety  of  diction, 
might  have  written  this  gross  yet  elevated,  this 
superficial  yet  profound,  this  preposterous  yet 
somehow  fascinating  book." 

The  Transcendental  strain  in  Whitman,  as 
well  as  his  curious  passion  for  cataloguing,  was 
wittily  touched  upon  by  the  London  Examiner : 
"  We  must  be  content  to  describe  this  Brooklyn 
boy  as  a  wild  Tupper  of  the  West.  .  .  .  Suppose 
that  Mr.  Tupper  had  been  brought  up  to  the 
business  of  an  auctioneer,  then  banished  to  the 
backwoods,  compelled  to  live  for  a  long  time  as 
a  backwoodsman,  and  thus  contracting  a  passion 
for  the  reading  of  Emerson  and  Carlyle ;  sup- 
pose him  maddened  by  this  course  of  reading, 
and  fancying  himself  not  only  an  Emerson  but 
a  Carlyle  and  an  American  Shakespeare  to  boot, 
when  the  fits  come  on,  and  putting  forth  his 
notion  of  that  combination  in  his  own  self-satis- 
fied way,  and  in  his  own  wonderful  cadences? 
In  that  state  he  would  write  a  book  exactly 
like  Walt  Whitman's  Leaves  of  Grass" 


104  WALT  WHITMAN 

The  London  Leader,  on  the  other  hand, 
thought  the  book  by  no  means  mere  food  for 
laughter,  and  endeavored  to  point  out  its  "  stag- 
gering "  central  principle. 

"  It  seems  to  resolve  itself  into  an  all-attracting 
egotism  —  an  eternal  presence  of  the  individ- 
ual soul  of  Walt  Whitman  in  all  things,  yet  in 
such  wise  that  this  one  soul  shall  be  presented 
as  a  type  of  all  human  souls  whatsoever.  He 
goes  forth  into  the  world,  this  rough,  devil-may- 
care  Yankee ;  passionately  identifies  himself 
with  all  forms  of  being,  sentient  or  inanimate ; 
sympathizes  deeply  with  humanity  ;  riots  with 
a  kind  of  Bacchanal  fury  in  the  force  and  fer- 
vor of  his  own  sensations ;  will  not  have  the 
most  vicious  or  abandoned  shut  out  from  final 
comfort  and  reconciliation ;  is  delighted  with 
Broadway,  New  York,  and  equally  in  love  with 
the  desolate  backwoods,  and  the  long  stretch  of 
the  uninhabited  prairie,  where  the  wild  beasts 
wallow  in  the  reeds,  and  the  wilder  birds  start 
upward  from  their  nests  among  the  grass ;  per- 
ceives a  divine  mystery  wherever  his  feet  con- 
duct, or  his  thoughts  transport  him ;  and  beholds 
all  things  tending  toward  the  central  and  sov- 
ereign Me.  Such,  as  we  conceive,  is  the  key  to 
this  strange,  grotesque  and  bewildering  book ; 
yet  we  are  far  from  saying  that  the  key  will  un- 
lock all  the  quirks  and  oddities  of  the  volume. 


LEAVES  OF  GRASS  105 

Much  remains  of  which  we  confess  we  can  make 
nothing;  much  that  seems  to  us  purely  fantas- 
tical and  preposterous  ;  much  that  appears  to 
our  muddy  vision  gratuitously  prosaic,  need- 
lessly plain-speaking,  disgusting  without  pur- 
pose, and  singular  without  result.  There  are  so 
many  evidences  of  a  noble  soul  in  Whitman's 
pages  that  we  regret  these  aberrations,  which 
only  have  the  effect  of  discrediting  what  is 
genuine  by  the  show  of  something  false ;  and 
especially  do  we  deplore  the  unnecessary  open- 
ness with  which  Walt  reveals  to  us  matters 
which  ought  rather  to  remain  in  sacred  silence. 
It  is  good  not  to  be  ashamed  of  Nature  ;  it  is 
good  to  have  an  all-inclusive  charity ;  but  it  is 
also  good,  sometimes,  to  leave  the  veil  across 
the  Temple." 

None  of  the  contemporary  notices  of  Leaves 
of  Grass,  however,  are  more  interesting  than 
those  which  were  composed  by  its  author.  There 
is  an  amiable  story  of  David  Garrick's  widow, 
who  is  said  to  have  remarked  to  a  young  play- 
wright who  was  bewailing  his  hard  treatment  by 
the  critics :  "  Why  don't  you  write  the  notices 
yourself  ?  Davy  always  did."  Whitman,  at  any 
rate,  throughout  his  career  as  a  poet,  had  no 
scruples  about  composing  laudatory  anonymous 
notices  of  himself,  and  sending  them  to  the  news- 
papers. The  fact  that  Spenser,  Leigh  Hunt,  and 


106  WALT   WHITMAN 

other  poets  had  published  self-criticisms  had 
early  attracted  his  attention,  and  he  doubtless 
saw  no  reason  why  he  should  not  follow  their 
example.  It  has  sometimes  been  urged  that  his 
anonymous  defense  of  Leaves  of  Grass  was 
called  forth  by  the  abusive  attacks  upon  it,  but 
the  fact  that  at  least  three  of  his  elaborate 
articles  appeared  almost  immediately  after  the 
publication  of  the  book  shows  that  they  were 
part  of  a  deliberate  campaign.  Believing  abso- 
lutely in  himself  and  his  book,  he  took  a  large  and 
unconventional  view  of  the  publicity  involved ; 
and,  indelicate  though  his  procedure  unquestion- 
ably was,  it  differs  very  little  from  that  of  count- 
less reputable  authors  of  our  own  day  who  do  not 
hesitate  to  send  "literary  notes"  about  them- 
selves to  their  publishers  to  be  used  in  exploiting 
their  books. 

One,  at  least,  of  these  pieces  of  self-exposition 
should  be  quoted  at  some  length.  It  appeared  in 
the  Brooklyn  Times  of  September  29, 1855,  and 
its  style  is  so  characteristic  that  it  is  curious 
that  it  should  not  have  been  attributed  to  Whit- 
man at  once. 

"  To  give  judgment  on  real  poems,  one  needs 
an  account  of  the  poet  himself.  Very  devilish 
to  some,  and  very  divine  to  some,  will  appear 
the  poet  of  these  new  poems,  the  'Leaves  of 
Grass ; '  an  attempt,  as  they  are,  of  a  naive, 


LEAVES  OF  GRASS  107 

masculine,  affectionate,  contemplative,  sensual, 
imperious  person,  to  cast  into  literature  not 
only  his  own  grit  and  arrogance,  but  his  own 
flesh  and  form,  undraped,  regardless  of  models, 
regardless  of  modesty  or  law,  and  ignorant  or 
silently  scornful,  as  at  first  appears,  of  all  except 
his  own  presence  and  experience,  and  all  outside 
the  fiercely  loved  land  of  his  birth,  and  the  birth 
of  his  parents,  and  their  parents  for  several  gen- 
erations before  him.  Politeness  this  man  has 
none,  and  regulation  he  has  none.  A  rude  child 
of  the  people ! —  No  imitation  — No  foreigner  — 
but  a  growth  and  idiom  of  America.  No  discon- 
tented —  a  careless  slouch,  enjoying  to-day.  No 
dilettante  democrat  —  a  man  who  is  art-and-part 
with  the  commonalty,  and  with  immediate  life  — 
loves  the  streets — loves  the  docks — loves  the 
free  rasping  talk  of  men  —  likes  to  be  called  by 
his  given  name,  and  nobody  at  all  need  Mr.  him 
—  can  laugh  with  laughers  —  likes  the  ungenteel 
ways  of  laborers  —  is  not  prejudiced  one  mite 
against  the  Irish  —  talks  readily  with  them  — 
talks  readily  with  niggers  —  does  not  make  a 
stand  on  being  a  gentleman,  nor  on  learning  or 
manners  —  eats  cheap  fare,  likes  the  strong 
flavored  coffee  of  the  coffee-stands  in  the  mar- 
ket, at  sunrise  —  likes  a  supper  of  oysters  fresh 
from  the  oyster-smack  —  likes  to  make  one  at 
the  crowded  table  among  sailors  and  work- 


108  WALT  WHITMAN 

people  —  would  leave  a  select  soiree  of  elegant 
people  any  time  to  go  with  tumultuous  men, 
roughs,  receive  their  caresses  and  welcome, 
listen  to  their  noise,  oaths,  smut,  fluency,  laugh- 
ter, repartee  —  and  can  preserve  his  presence 
perfectly  among  these,  and  the  like  of  these. 
The  effects  he  produces  in  his  poems  are  no 
effects  of  artists  or  the  arts,  but  effects  of  the 
original  eye  or  arm,  or  the  actual  atmosphere, 
or  tree,  or  bird.  You  may  feel  the  unconscious 
teaching  of  a  fine  brute,  but  will  never  feel  the 
artificial  teaching  of  a  fine  writer  or  speaker. 

"  Other  poets  celebrate  great  events,  person- 
ages, romances,  wars,  loves,  passions,  the  victo- 
ries and  power  of  their  country,  or  some  real  or 
imagined  incident  —  and  polish  their  work  and 
come  to  conclusions,  and  satisfy  the  reader. 
This  poet  celebrates  natural  propensities  in  him- 
self ;  and  that  is  the  way  he  celebrates  all.  He 
comes  to  no  conclusions,  and  does  not  satisfy  the 
reader.  He  certainly  leaves  him  what  the  serpent 
left  the  woman  and  the  man,  the  taste  of  the 
Paradisaic  tree  of  the  knowledge  of  good  and 
evil,  never  to  be  erased  again. 

"What  good  is  it  to  argue  about  egotism? 
There  can  be  no  two  thoughts  on  Walt  Whit- 
man's egotism.  That  is  avowedly  what  he  steps 
out  of  the  crowd  and  turns  and  faces  them  for. 
Mark,  critics !  Otherwise  is  not  used  for  you  the 


LEAVES   OF  GRASS  109 

key  that  leads  to  the  use  of  the  other  keys  to  this 
well-enveloped  man.  His  whole  work,  his  life, 
manners,  friendships,  writings,  all  have  among 
their  leading  purposes  an  evident  purpose  to 
stamp  a  new  type  of  character,  namely  his  own, 
and  indelibly  fix  it  and  publish  it,  not  for  a 
model  but  an  illustration,  for  the  present  and 
future  of  American  letters  and  American  young 
men,  for  the  south  the  same  as  the  north,  and 
for  the  Pacific  and  Mississippi  country,  and 
Wisconsin  and  Texas  and  Kansas  and  Canada 
and  Havana  and  Nicaragua,  just  as  much  as  New 
York  and  Boston.  Whatever  is  needed  toward 
this  achievement,  he  puts  his  hand  to,  and  lets 
imputations  take  their  time  to  die. 

"First  be  yourself  what  you  would  show  in 
your  poem  —  such  seems  to  be  this  man's  exam- 
ple and  inferred  rebuke  to  the  schools  of  poets. 
He  makes  no  allusions  to  books  or  writers ;  their 
spirits  do  not  seem  to  have  touched  him;  he 
has  not  a  word  to  say  for  or  against  them,  or 
their  theories  or  ways.  He  never  offers  others ; 
what  he  continually  offers  is  the  man  whom  our 
Brooklynites  know  so  well.  Of  pure  American 
breed,  large  and  lusty  —  age  thirty-six  years, 
(1855)  —  never  once  using  medicine  —  never 
dressed  in  black,  always  dressed  freely  and  clean 
in  strong  clothes  —  neck  open,  shirt-collar  flat 
and  broad,  countenance  tawny  transparent  red, 


110  WALT  WHITMAN 

beard  well-mottled  with  white,  hair  like  hay  after 
it  has  been  mowed  in  the  field  and  lies  tossed 
and  streaked  —  his  physiology  corroborating  a 
rugged  phrenology  —  a  person  singularly  beloved 
and  looked  toward,  especially  by  young  men  and 
the  illiterate  —  one  who  has  firm  attachments 
there,  and  associates  there  —  one  who  does  not  as- 
sociate with  literary  people  —  a  man  never  called 
upon  to  make  speeches  at  public  dinners  —  never 
on  platforms  amid  the  crowds  of  clergymen,  or 
professors,  or  aldermen,  or  congressmen  —  rather 
down  in  the  bay  with  pilots  in  their  pilot-boat  — 
or  off  on  a  cruise  with  fishers  in  a  fishing-smack 
—  or  riding  on  a  Broadway  omnibus,  side  by 
side  with  the  driver —  or  with  a  band  of  loungers 
over  the  open  grounds  of  the  country  —  fond  of 
New  York  and  Brooklyn  —  fond  of  the  life  of 
the  great  ferries  —  one  whom,  if  you  should 
meet,  you  need  not  expect  to  meet  an  extraordi- 
nary person  —  one  in  whom  you  will  see  the 
singularity  which  consists  in  no  singularity  — 
whose  contact  is  no  dazzle  or  fascination,  nor  re- 
quires any  deference,  but  has  the  easy  fascina- 
tion of  what  is  homely  and  accustomed  —  as  of 
something  you  knew  before,  and  was  waiting 
for  —  there  you  have  Walt  Whitman,  the  be- 
getter of  a  new  offspring  out  of  literature,  taking 
with  easy  nonchalance  the  chances  of  its  present 
reception,  and,  through  all  misunderstandings 


LEAVES  OF  GRASS  111 

and  distrusts,  the  chances  of  its  future  reception 
—  preferring  always  to  speak  for  himself  rather 
than  have  others  speak  for  him."  Precisely  ! 

A  second  article  by  Whitman,  appearing  in 
the  American  Phrenological  Journal,  published 
by  Fowler  and  Wells  of  New  York,  who  were 
shortly  to  become  the  publishers  of  the  second 
edition  of  Leaves  of  Grass,  is  entitled  "An 
English  and  an  American  Poet,"  and  is  devoted 
to  a  comparison  of  Whitman's  Leaves  with 
Tennyson's  Maud.  Admitting  that  Tennyson 
"  is  a  real  poet,  in  spite  of  his  ennui  and  his 
aristocracy,"  the  anonymous  reviewer  neverthe- 
less considers  Walt  Whitman  the  "  haughtiest 
of  writers  that  has  ever  yet  written  and  printed 
a  book.  His  is  to  prove  either  the  most  lament- 
able of  failures  or  the  most  glorious  of  triumphs 
in  the  known  history  of  literature.  And  after 
all  we  have  written  we  confess  our  brain-felt 
and  heart-felt  inability  to  decide  which  we  think 
it  is  likely  to  be." 

A  certain  caution,  not  unbecoming  to  a  literary 
prophet,  may  be  traced  in  that  last  sentence. 
But  in  the  third  of  Whitman's  anonymous  self- 
reviews,  there  is  no  hedging.  It  appeared  in  the 
magazine  that  had  welcomed  him  a  dozen  years 
before, — the  United  States  and  Democratic  He- 
view,  for  September,  1855.  The  stout  old  Review 
was  sailing  into  troubled  political  waters  in  those 


112  WALT  WHITMAN 

days,  and  changing  pilots  rather  often,  but  it 
carried  the  burden  of  Whitman's  fortunes  gal- 
lantly enough.  "  An  American  bard  at  last !  " 
triumphantly  begins  the  article,  which  is  too  long 
to  be  printed  here.1  "  One  of  the  roughs,  large, 
proud,  affectionate,  eating,  drinking  and  breeding, 
his  costume  manly  and  free,  his  face  sunburnt 
and  bearded,  his  postures  strong  and  erect,  his 
voice  bringing  hope  and  prophecy  to  the  generous 
races  of  young  and  old.  We  shall  cease  sham- 
ming and  be  what  we  really  are.  We  shall  start 
an  athletic  and  defiant  literature.  We  realize 
now  how  it  is,  and  what  was  most  lacking.  The 
interior  American  republic  shall  also  be  declared 
free  and  independent." 

So  it  marches,  page  after  page,  until  the  re- 
viewer, closing  with  a  crescendo  passage,  gravely 
salutes  the  poet :  "  You  have  come  in  good  time, 
Walt  Whitman !  In  opinions,  in  manners,  in 
costumes,  in  books,  in  the  aims  and  occupancy 
of  life,  in  associates,  in  poems,  conformity  to  all 
unnatural  and  tainted  customs  passes  without 
remark,  while  perfect  naturalness,  health,  faith, 
self-reliance,  and  all  primal  expressions  of  the 
manliest  love  and  friendship,  subject  one  to  the 
stare  and  controversy  of  the  world." 

The  practical  difficulty  was  that  in  spite  of  all 

1  The  three  reviews  just,  quoted  were  printed  in  Leaves  of 
Grass  Imprints,  and  later  in  In  Re  Walt  Whitman. 


LEAVES  OF  GRASS  113 

this  excellent  advertising  and  "  the  stare  and  con- 
troversy of  the  world,"  the  edition  of  1855  could 
not  be  sold.  In  vain  did  Whitman  print  several 
pages  of  press-notices,  including  the  three  written 
by  himself,  and  bind  them  into  the  unsold  re- 
mainder of  the  edition.  People  did  not  want  it. 
Then,  with  the  stubborn  Dutch  patience  which 
underlay  the  poseur,  he  determined  upon  the 
course  which  he  was  to  follow  to  the  end.  "  When 
the  book  aroused  such  a  tempest  of  anger  and 
condemnation  everywhere,"  he  said  afterward, 
"  I  went  off  to  the  east  end  of  Long  Island  and 
Peconic  Bay.  Then  came  back  to  New  York 
with  the  confirmed  resolution,  from  which  I 
never  afterward  wavered,  to  go  on  with  my  poetic 
enterprise  in  my  own  way  and  finish  it  as  well  as 
I  could."  He  gave  up  the  carpenter's  trade  for- 
ever, and  continuing  to  live  under  his  mother's 
roof,  set  himself  to  the  composition  of  new  poems. 
By  June,  1856,  he  was  ready  with  his  second 
edition,  a  fat  sixteenmo  of  384  pages,  contain- 
ing thirty-two  poems  in  all,  including  eleven  out 
of  the  twelve  originally  published.  All  of  the 
poems  were  numbered  and  furnished  with  titles. 
Among  the  new  pieces  were  the  significant  ones 
now  known  under  the  titles  "  Salut  au  Monde," 
"  Song  of  the  Broad- Axe,"  "  By  Blue  Ontario's 
Shore,"  "  Crossing  Brooklyn  Ferry,"  "  Song  of 
the  Open  Road."  Two  or  three  of  the  briefer 


114  WALT  WHITMAN 

poems  were  daring — even  for  Whitman — both 
in  title  and  treatment.  In  the  pieces  retained 
from  the  first  edition  the  alterations  were  slight. 
The  preface  disappeared,  though  certain  passages 
from  it  now  emerged  as  verse.  The  portrait  was 
retained.  No  publisher's  name  appeared,  Messrs. 
Fowler  and  Wells  of  New  York,  who  brought 
out  the  edition,  preferring  to  withhold  their  im- 
print. The  most  striking  external  feature  of  the 
volume  was  an  extract  from  Emerson's  letter  of 
the  year  before,  now  printed  in  gilt  letters  upon 
the  back  of  the  new  and  enlarged  edition :  — 

I  GREET  YOU  AT 

THE  BEGINNING  OF  A  GREAT  CAREER. 
R.  W.  EMERSON. 

Few  acts  of  Whitman's  life  were  more  resented 
by  fellow-writers  than  this  unauthorized  use  of 
a  personal  letter.  Yet  Charles  A.  Dana,  a  friend 
of  both  men,  had  counseled  Whitman  to  utilize 
Emerson's  praise,  and  it  is  unlikely  that  Whit- 
man, who  was  quite  without  natural  delicacy  in 
such  matters,  saw  any  good  reason  for  hiding 
under  a  bushel  the  glorious  candle  which  Emer- 
son had  lighted.  But  the  Concord  philosopher 
was,  for  the  moment,  pardonably  annoyed.  A 
friend  1  who  happened  to  be  Emerson's  guest  on 

1  Mr.  Josiah  P.  Quincy  of  Boston. 


LEAVES  OF  GRASS  115 

the  day  the  book  arrived  in  Concord  has  kindly 
written  out  for  me  his  recollection  of  the  inci- 
dent :  — 

"Mr.  Emerson  came  into  his  study  at  Con- 
cord where  I  was  sitting,  bearing  in  his  hand  a 
book  which  he  had  just  received.  This  was  the 
new  edition  of  Whitman's  book  with  the  words 
4 1  greet  you  at  the  beginning  of  a  great  career. 
E.  W.  Emerson/  printed  in  gold  letters  upon 
the  cover.  Emerson  looked  troubled,  and  ex- 
pressed annoyance  that  a  sentence  from  a  private 
letter  should  be  wrenched  from  its  context  and  so 
emblazoned.  He  afterwards  gave  me  the  book, 
saying  that  the  inside  was  worthy  attention  even 
though  it  came  from  one  capable  of  so  misusing 
the  cover.  I  noted  the  incident  because  at  no 
other  time  had  I  seen  a  cloud  of  dissatisfaction 
darken  that  serene  countenance." 

A  less  conspicuous  but  far  more  regrettable 
feature  of  this  edition  was  the  appendix  entitled 
"Leaves-Droppings."  It  consisted  chiefly  of 
press-notices,  but  prefaced  these  with  Emer- 
son's letter  of  July,  1855,  and  with  an  extraordi- 
nary and  most  disingenuous  answer,  which 
begins  thus :  — 

BROOKLYN,  August,  1856. 

Here  are  thirty-two  Poems,  which  I  send  you, 
dear  Friend  and  Master,  not  having  found  how 
I  could  satisfy  myself  with  sending  any  usual 


116  WALT  WHITMAN 

acknowledgment  of  your  letter.  The  first  edi- 
tion, on  which  you  mailed  me  that  till  now 
unanswered  letter,  was  twelve  poems  —  I  printed 
a  thousand  copies,  and  they  readily  sold  ;  these 
thirty-two  Poems  I  stereotype,  to  print  several 
thousand  copies  of.  I  much  enjoy  making  poems. 
Other  work  I  have  set  for  myself  to  do,  to  meet 
people  and  The  States  face  to  face,  to  confront 
them  with  an  American  rude  tongue ;  but  the 
work  of  my  life  is  making  poems.  I  keep  on  till 
I  make  a  hundred,  and  then  several  hundred  — 
perhaps  a  thousand.  The  way  is  clear  to  me. 
A  few  years,  and  the  average  annual  call  for  my 
Poems  is  ten  or  twenty  thousand  copies  —  more, 
quite  likely.  Why  should  I  hurry  or  compromise  ? 
In  poems  or  in  speeches  I  say  the  word  or  two 
that  has  got  to  be  said,  adhere  to  the  body,  step 
with  the  countless  common  footsteps,  and  remind 
every  man  or  woman  of  something. 

"  Master,  I  am  a  man  who  has  perfect  faith. 
Master,  we  have  not  come  through  centuries, caste, 
heroisms,  fables,  to  halt  in  this  land  today." 

To  say  nothing  of  its  romancing  about  the 
sale  of  the  first  edition,  the  tone  of  this  opening 
is  so  mawkish  as  to  leave  an  unpleasant  impres- 
sion as  to  Whitman's  nervous  condition  at  the 
time.  He  was  over-excited,  no  doubt,  and  felt 
that  he  was  playing  for  high  stakes.  The  letter 


LEAVES  OF  GRASS  117 

is  mainly  devoted  to  a  plea  for  a  masculine  and 
native  American  literature,  and  Emerson  must 
have  recognized  in  it  a  curious  echo  and  pro- 
duct of  his  own  "  American  Scholar  "  address 
of  nineteen  years  before,  —  that  address  which 
Holmes  fitly  characterized  as  "  our  intellectual 
Declaration  of  Independence."  Whitman's  own 
sense  of  his  indebtedness  is  clearly  confessed  at 
the  close,  where,  after  speaking  of  the  "new 
moral  American  continent "  without  which  the 
physical  continent  remained  incomplete,  he  de- 
clares :  — 

Those  shores  you  found.  I  say  you  have  led 
The  States  there  —  have  led  Me  there.  I  say 
that  none  has  ever  done  or  ever  can  do,  a  greater 
deed  for  The  States,  than  your  deed.  Others 
may  line  out  the  lines,  build  cities,  work  mines, 
break  up  farms  ;  it  is  yours  to  have  been  the 
original  true  Captain  who  put  to  sea,  intuitive, 
positive,  rendering  the  first  report,  to  be  told  less 
by  any  report,  and  more  by  the  mariners  of  a 
thousand  bays,  in  each  tack  of  their  arriving 
and  departing,  many  years  after  you. 

Receive,  dear  Master,  these  statements  and 
assurances  through  me,  for  all  the  }'oung  men, 
and  for  an  earnest  that  we  know  none  before  you, 
but  the  best  following  you  ;  and  that  we  demand 
to  take  your  name  into  our  keeping,  and  that  we 


118  WALT  WHITMAN 

understand  what  you  have  indicated,  and  find 
the  same  indicated  in  ourselves,  and  that  we  will 
stick  to  it  and  enlarge  upon  it  through  These 
States. 

WALT  WHITMAN. 

But  if  the  cover  and  the  appendix  of  the  185G 
edition  of  Leaves  of  Grass  revealed  the  social 
and  moral  obtuseness  of  a  man  walking  in  the 
primrose  path  of  self-exploitation,  the  volume 
nevertheless  showed  indubitable  literary  power. 
In  vividness  of  phrase,  in  haunting  cadence,  in 
largeness  of  imagination,  and  in  what  Henry 
Sidgwick  was  later  to  term  "  cosmic  emotion/* 
there  had  been  no  American  book  comparable 
with  it.  Its  anomalous  form  and  its  "  unwise 
excursions  into  tacenda  "  soon  proved,  however, 
to  be  obstacles  which  contemporary  criticism 
could  not  surmount.  The  newspaper  notices  of 
the  second  edition  were,  if  anything,  more  con- 
demnatory than  those  of  the  previous  year,  partly, 
no  doubt,  because  the  book  contained  a  few 
pieces  whose  frank  animality  was  more  apparent 
than  any  poetical  quality.  Fowler  and  Wells, 
alarmed  at  the  outcry,  refused  to  sell  the  volume 
which  they  had  manufactured. 

In  face  of  the  disappointment  Whitman  stol- 
idly held  his  ground.  He  began  to  be  visited 
by  men  of  intellectual  distinction,  curious  to  see 


LEAVES  OF  GRASS  119 

what  he  was  like.  Moncure  D.  Conway,  a  young 
Virginian  who  had  gone  to  Concord  in  order  to 
be  near  Emerson,  was  advised  by  the  latter  to 
call  upon  Whitman  in  Brooklyn.  He  had  found 
him,  September  17,  1855,  revising  proof  at 
Rome's  printing-office,  and  "  came  off  delighted 
with  him."  Whitman  told  Conway  that  he  was 
the  first  who  had  visited  him  because  of  his 
book.1  Emerson  himself  came  not  long  after- 
ward, as  did  A.  Branson  Alcott,  the  vague  and 
impractical  high  priest  of  Transcendentalism, 
who  found  much  in  Whitman  to  approve.  Wil- 
liam Cullen  Bryant,  the  austere  and  pure,  already 
over  sixty  and  carrying  the  burden  of  his  editor- 
ship of  the  Evening  Post,  crossed  Brooklyn 
Ferry  to  have  long  talks  and  walks  with  the 
author  of  Leaves  of  Grass.2  Another  visitor  was 
Henry  D.  Thoreau,  who  had  made  his  first  call 
in  company  with  Alcott.  Thoreau's  first  impres- 
sion, as  communicated  to  Harrison  Blake,3  was 
this  :  "  He  is  apparently  the  greatest  democrat 
the  world  has  seen.  ...  A  remarkably  strong 
though  coarse  nature,  of  a  sweet  disposition,  and 

1  See  M.  D.  Conway's  Autobiography,  Memories,  and  Expe- 
riences, Boston,  1904. 

2  Later,  however,  like    many    other    original    enthusiasts, 
Bryant  ''shook  his  head."    See  Justin  McCarthy's  Reminis- 
cences, vol.  i,  page  196. 

a  Thoreau's  Familiar  Letters,  page  340. 


120  WALT  WHITMAN 

much  prized  by  his  friends  .  .  .  He  is  very  broad ; 
but,  as  I  have  said,  not  fine.  He  said  that  I  mis- 
apprehended him.  I  am  not  quite  sure  that  I  do." 
A  later  letter  to  Blake  is  well-known :  *  — 

[TO  HARRISON  BLAKE.] 

December  7  [1856]. 

That  Walt  Whitman,  of  whom  I  wrote  to 
you,  is  the  most  interesting  fact  to  me  at  present. 
I  have  just  read  his  second  edition  (which  he 
gave  me),  and  it  has  done  me  more  good  than 
any  reading  for  a  long  time.  Perhaps  I  remem- 
ber best  the  poem  of  Walt  Whitman,  an  Ameri- 
can, and  the  Sun-Down  Poem.  There  are  two  or 
three  pieces  in  the  book  which  are  disagreeable, 
to  say  the  least;  simply  sensual.  He  does  not 
celebrate  love  at  all.  It  is  as  if  the  beasts  spoke. 
I  think  that  men  have  not  been  ashamed  of 
themselves  without  reason.  No  doubt  there  have 
always  been  dens  where  such  deeds  were  un- 
blushingly  recited,  and  it  is  no  merit  to  compete 
with  their  inhabitants.  But  even  on  this  side 
he  has  spoken  more  truth  than  any  American  or 
modern  that  I  know.  I  have  found  his  poem 
exhilarating,  encouraging.  As  for  its  sensuality, 
—  and  it  may  turn  out  to  be  less  sensual  than 
it  appears,  —  I  do  not  so  much  wish  that  those 
parts  were  not  written,  as  that  men  and  women 

1  Thoreau's  Familiar  Letters,  page  345. 


LEAVES   OF  GRASS  121 

were  so  pure  that  they  could  read  them  with- 
out harm,  that  is,  without  understanding  them. 
One  woman  told  me  that  no  woman  could  read 
it,  —  as  if  a  man  could  read  what  a  woman 
could  not.  Of  course  Walt  Whitman  can  com- 
municate to  us  no  experience,  and  if  we  are 
shocked,  whose  experience  is  it  that  we  are  re- 
minded of  ? 

On  the  whole,  it  sounds  to  me  very  brave  and 
American,  after  whatever  deductions.  I  do  not 
believe  that  all  the  sermons,  so  called,  that  have 
been  preached  in  this  land  put  together  are  equal 
to  it  for  preaching. 

We  ought  to  rejoice  greatly  in  him.  He  occa- 
sionally suggests  something  a  little  more  than 
human.  You  can't  confound  him  with  the  other 
inhabitants  of  Brooklyn  or  New  York.  How 
they  must  shudder  when  they  read  him!  He 
is  awfully  good. 

To  be  sure  I  sometimes  feel  a  little  imposed 
on.  By  his  heartiness  and  broad  generalities  he 
puts  me  into  a  liberal  frame  of  mind  prepared  to 
see  wonders, —  as  it  were,  sets  me  upon  a  hill  or 
in  the  midst  of  a  plain, —  stirs  me  well  up,  and 
then  —  throws  in  a  thousand  of  brick.  Though 
rude,  and  sometimes  ineffectual,  it  is  a  great  prim- 
itive poem,  —  an  alarum  or  trumpet-note  ring- 
ing through  the  American  camp.  Wonderfully 
like  the  Orientals,  too,  considering  that  when  I 


122  WALT  WHITMAN 

asked  him  if  he  had  read  them,  he  answered, 
"No:  tell  me  about  them." 

I  did  not  get  far  in  conversation  with  him, — 
two  more  being  present, —  and  among  the  few 
things  which  I  chanced  to  say,  I  remember  that 
one  was,  in  answer  to  him  as  representing  Amer- 
ica, that  I  did  not  think  much  of  America  or  of 
politics,  and  so  on,  which  may  have  been  some- 
what of  a  damper  to  him. 

Since  I  have  seen  him,  I  find  that  I  am  not 
disturbed  by  any  brag  or  egoism  in  his  book.  He 
may  turn  out  the  least  of  a  braggart  of  all,  hav- 
ing a  better  right  to  be  confident. 

He  is  a  great  fellow. 

Emerson  had  written  in  that  same  year  to 
Carlyle:  — 

"One  book,  last  summer,  came  out  in  New 
York,  a  nondescript  monster,  which  yet  had  ter- 
rible eyes  and  buffalo  strength,  and  was  indis- 
putably American  —  which  I  thought  to  send 
you ;  but  the  book  throve  so  badly  with  the  few 
to  whom  I  showed  it  and  wanted  good  morals  so 
much,  that  I  never  did.  Yet  I  believe  now  again, 
I  shall.  It  is  called  Leaves  of  Grass  —  was  writ- 
ten and  printed  by  a  journeyman  printer  in 
Brooklyn,  New  York,  named  Walter  Whitman  ; 
and  after  you  have  looked  into  it,  if  you  think, 
as  you  may,  that  it  is  only  an  auctioneer's  inven- 


LEAVES  OF  GRASS  123 

tory  of  a  warehouse,  you   can  light  your  pipe 
with  it."  l 

One  fact  seems  to  have  impressed  all  these 
visitors.  Instead  of  the  "  terrible  eyes  and  buf- 
falo strength  "  which  might  have  been  expected, 
they  found  a  quiet,  slow  man,  pleasant- voiced,  re- 
ticent, studiously  chaste  in  speech  and  modest  of 
manner ;  a  man,  in  short,  as  little  like  the  "  New 
York  rowdy  "  of  Leaves  of  Grass  as  could  be 
imagined.  Whitman  welcomed  his  callers  simply 
and  heartily,  listened  to  their  conversation,  and 
made  no  attempt  to  play  the  oracle  himself.  He 
seemed  to  possess  unhindered  leisure.  His  phys- 
ical wants  were  of  the  simplest.  He  rose  late, 
wrote  or  read  as  fancy  led  him,  and  often  in  the 
afternoon  or  evening  crossed  the  ferry  to  New 
York,  where  he  would  ride  hour  after  hour  in  his 
favorite  seat  on  top  of  an  omnibus,  or  linger  in 
some  Bohemian  resort  like  Pf aff's,  on  Broadway, 
among  a  group  of  young  newspaper  men.  He 
began  now  to  have  the  satisfaction  of  being 
pointed  out  as  the  man  who  had  written  Leaves 
of  Grass.  He  met  new  acquaintances  genially, 
and  borrowed  money  from  them  if  he  happened 
to  need  it,  with  the  forgetful  freedom  of  old 
comradeship.  He  persuaded  one  man  of  letters, 
then  recently  married,  to  intrust  to  him  the 
whole  of  his  small  savings,  which  were  straight- 

1  Emerson-Carlyle  Correspondence,  1883,  vol.  ii,  p.  25. 


124  WALT  WHITMAN 

way  lost  in  speculation.  His  friend  brought  suit 
to  recover,  but  it  was  like  trying  to  coin  a 
vacuum.  In  such  transactions  poets  are  rarely 
at  their  best.1 

At  times  Whitman  elaborated  various  schemes 
for  supporting  himself  by  becoming  an  itinerant 
lecturer.  The  price  of  admission,  as  he  first 
figured  it,  was  to  be  fifteen  cents.  Afterward 
he  lowered  it  to  ten,  but  the  scheme  came  to 
nothing.  An  American  Primer,2  a  shrewd 
though  unlearned  inquiry  into  the  aesthetic  value 
of  words,  was  to  have  been  one  of  these  lectures. 
He  made  many  notes  upon  vocal  culture  and 
gesticulation,  and  upon  the  different  styles  re- 
quisite for  popular  success  in  different  sections 
of  the  country.  Fascinating  as  the  function  of 
the  orator  always  was  to  him,  it  is  scarcely  con- 
ceivable that  he  would  have  been  practically 
suited  for  such  a  role.  His  friends  O'Connor  and 
John  Swinton  used  later  to  laugh  at  his  attempts 
at  declamation,  because  of  his  habit  of  constrict- 
ing his  throat  and  his  artificial  manner  of  recita- 
tion. His  platform  appearances,  toward  the  end 
of  his  life,  gave  no  evidence  that  he  possessed 
the  orator's  gifts ;  his  voice  was  then  high  and 
thin,  and  aside  from  his  striking  countenance, 
his  audiences  found  him  unimpressive. 

To  the  born  orator,  the  temper  of  the  late  fif- 

1  See  Appendix. 

2  First  published  in  The  Atlantic  Monthly  for  April,  1904. 


LEAVES  OF  GRASS  125 

ties  would  have  been  more  hospitable  than  to  the 
poet.  A  commercial  panic  startled  the  well-to-do 
from  their  security.  Politics  were  a  troubled 
stream,  and  the  nation  was  drifting  toward  civil 
war.  Upon  some  of  the  fundamental  issues  in- 
volved in  that  conflict  Whitman  had  felt  deeply 
and  spoken  freely  in  the  past.  He  had  deserted 
the  Democratic  party,  had  become  a  Free-Soiler 
and  Abolitionist.  Yet  for  half  a  dozen  years 
after  the  spiritual  excitement  that  resulted  in 
Leaves  of  Grass,  his  mind  dwelt  almost  wholly 
upon  personal  emotions  and  upon  the  larger  re- 
lations of  man  with  the  universe.  Politics  went 
to  the  background  of  his  attention  until  well 
after  the  opening  of  the  War  of  the  Rebellion. 
From  1857  to  1860  he  continued  to  devote 
himself  to  perfecting  his  book,  writing  more 
than  a  hundred  new  poems,  and  altering  the  text 
and  the  order  of  those  already  issued.  He  com- 
posed, both  now  and  later,  with  extreme  care, 
and  with  an  old  typesetter's  obstinacy  regarding 
his  own  system  of  punctuation  and  capitalization. 
Frequently  he  prepared  in  advance  long  lists 
of  synonyms  and  epithets  likely  to  be  useful 
in  writing  a  specific  poem,  and  his  manuscripts 
show  his  unwearied  endeavor  to  try  one  variant 
after  another  until  his  ear  was  satisfied.  The 
two  most  important  of  the  new  groups  of  pieces 
were  entitled  "Enfans  d'Adam"  (later,  "Child- 


126  WALT  WHITMAN 

ren  of  Adam")  and  "Calamus."  In  the  first  of 
these  groups  he  brought  together,  once  for  all, 
what  he  had  to  say  upon  the  sex  relations  of 
men  and  women, —  never  afterward  recurring  to 
this  vexed  theme ;  in  the  second  group,  which 
remains  one  of  the  most  difficult  and  mystical  sec- 
tions of  his  book,  he  expounds  his  theory  of  the 
friendship  of  men  for  men.  He  wrote,  too,  a  pro- 
logue and  epilogue  for  the  whole  volume,  with  a 
sort  of  architectonic  endeavor  like  that  cherished 
by  Wordsworth  in  his  scheme  of  the  relation  of 
"  The  Prelude  "  and  "  The  Excursion  "  to  "  The 
Kecluse." 

By  1860  Whitman  was  again  ready  to  seek  a 
publisher,  and  he  found  a  hospitable  house  in 
Boston, —  that  of  Messrs.  Thayer  and  Eldridge. 
They  put  their  name  upon  the  title-page,  over 
the  date  1860-61.  The  portrait  used  in  the  earlier 
edition  was  discarded  in  favor  of  a  new  engraving 
of  the  author,  after  a  painting  made  by  Charles 
Hine  in  1859  ;  and  though  the  face  is  not  wholly 
pleasing,  there  is  less  of  that  peculiar  sensuality 
which  makes  the  earlier  portraits  of  Whitman 
repellent  to  many  persons.  The  volume  was  a 
handsome  one  of  456  pages.  Unfortunately,  after 
four  or  five  thousand  copies  had  been  sold,  the 
plates  passed  into  the  hands  of  a  New  York  pub- 
lisher named  Worthington,  who  printed  many 
editions  from  them  without  paying  copyright. 


LEAVES  OF  GRASS  127 

While  the  book  was  passing  through  the  press 
Whitman  stayed  in  Boston,  where  he  made  some 
warm  friends.  He  arrived  about  the  middle  of 
March,  1860.  In  April  The  Atlantic  Monthly, 
then  under  Lowell's  editorship,  printed  his  poem, 
"  Bardic  Symbols,"  afterward  named  "  As  I 
Ebbed  with  the  Ocean  of  Life."  It  was  un- 
signed, like  all  the  contributions  to  the  Atlantic 
in  those  days,  but  Whitman's  authorship  of  it 
was  easily  recognizable.  His  publisher,  C.  W. 
Eldridge,  a  man  of  literary  taste,  became  a  life- 
long admirer  and  correspondent.  Eldridge's 
friend,  W.  D.  O'Connor,  then  engaged  in 
writing  the  novel  Harrington  for  Thayer  and 
Eldridge,  met  Whitman  in  the  publisher's 
office,  and  laid  the  foundation  of  an  intimacy 
which  was  to  be  renewed  shortly  at  Washington, 
and  which  resulted  later  in  his  brilliant  and 
famous  pamphlet  in  Whitman's  defence,  entitled 
The  Good  Gray  Poet.  Another  new  friend 
was  J.  T.  Trowbridge,  the  story-writer  and  poet, 
who  has  written  a  charming  account  of  his  first 
interview  with  Whitman.1  He  found  a  large, 
gray-haired  and  gray -bearded  man  reading  proof 
sheets  at  a  desk  in  a  dingy  office.  Whitman's  talk 
was  disappointing  at  first,  but  on  the  next  Sun- 

1  Published  in  The  Atlantic  Monthly  for  February,  1002,  and 
afterward  repeated  in  My  Own  Story,  Houghton,  Mifflin  and 
Company,  1903. 


128  WALT  WHITMAN 

day,  at  Trowbridge's  house,  he  conversed  freely, 
particularly  upon  his  indebtedness  to  Emerson, 
who  had  helped  him  to  "find  himself."  "I  was 
simmering,  simmering,  simmering,"  he  declared 
in  a  homely  metaphor  ;  "  Emerson  brought  me  to 
a  boil."  Emerson  himself,  who  had  already  vis- 
ited Whitman  in  Brooklyn,  came  repeatedly  to 
see  him.  One  well-known  conversation  between 
them  has  been  preserved  in  a  reminiscence  of 
Boston  Common  written  by  Whitman  in  Octo- 
ber, 1881: 

"  Up  and  down  this  breadth  by  Beacon  Street, 
between  these  same  old  elms,  I  walk'd  for  two 
hours,  of  a  bright  sharp  February  mid-day  twenty- 
one  years  ago,  with  Emerson,  then  in  his  prime, 
keen,  physically  and  morally  magnetic,  arm'd  at 
every  point,  and  when  he  chose,  wielding  the 
emotional  just  as  well  as  the  intellectual.  During 
those  two  hours  he  was  the  talker  and  I  the 
listener.  It  was  an  argument-statement,  recon- 
noitring, review,  attack,  and  pressing  home, 
(like  an  army  corps  in  order,  artillery,  cavalry, 
infantry,)  of  all  that  could  be  said  against  that 
part  (and  a  main  part)  in  the  construction  of 
my  poems,  4  Children  of  Adam.'  More  precious 
than  gold  to  me  that  dissertion  —  it  afforded  me, 
ever  after,  this  strange  and  paradoxical  lesson ; 
each  point  of  E.'s  statement  was  unanswerable, 
no  judge's  charge  ever  more  complete  or  convin- 


LEAVES  OF  GRASS  129 

cing,  I  could  never  hear  the  points  better  put  — 
and  then  I  felt  down  in  my  soul  the  clear  and 
unmistakable  conviction  to  disobey  all,  and  pur- 
sue my  own  way.  4  What  have  you  to  say  then 
to  such  things  ? '  said  E.,  pausing  in  conclusion. 
'  Only  that  while  I  can't  answer  them  at  all,  I 
feel  more  settled  than  ever  to  adhere  to  my 
own  theory,  and  exemplify  it,'  was  my  candid 
response.  Whereupon  we  went  and  had  a  good 
dinner  at  the  American  House.  And  thencefor- 
ward I  never  waver'd  or  was  touch'd  with  qualms, 
(as  I  confess  I  had  been  two  or  three  times  be- 
fore.)"1 

Another  Boston  celebrity  whom  Emerson  and 
Whitman  have  united  to  honor,  and  whom 
Whitman  first  heard  at  this  time,  was  Father 
Taylor,  the  sailor  preacher.  Whitman  went  sev- 
eral times  to  hear  him  preach,  was  affected  to 
tears  by  the  old  man's  prayers,  and  thought  him 
the  "  one  essentially  perfect  orator  "  among  all 
the  eloquent  men  of  that  day.  So  passed  the 
pleasant  weeks  of  leisurely  proof-reading  and 
congenial  companionship,  until  Whitman  re- 
turned in  June  to  New  York. 

In  August  Mr.  Howells  met  him  one  evening 
at  Pfaff's  among  the  Saturday  Press  coterie, 
and  has  recorded 2  how  Whitman  "  leaned  back 

1  Specimen  Days,  p.  183. 

2  Literary  Friends  and  Acquaintance,  p.  74. 


130  WALT  WHITMAN 

in  his  chair  and  reached  out  his  great  hand  to  me 
as  if  he  were  going  to  give  it  to  me  for  good  and 
all.  He  had  a  fine  head,  with  a  cloud  of  Jovian 
hair  upon  it,  and  a  branching  beard  and  mus- 
tache, gentle  eyes  that  looked  most  kindly  into 
mine,  and  seemed  to  wish  the  liking  which  I  in- 
stantly gave  him,  though  we  hardly  passed  a 
word,  and  our  acquaintance  was  summed  up  in 
that  glance  and  the  grasp  of  his  mighty  fist 
upon  my  hand." 

For  the  following  year  glimpses  of  Whitman 
are  infrequent.  In  the  spring  of  1861  the  war 
came;  Messrs.  Thayer  and  Eldridge  could  not 
collect  their  bills,  and  Leaves  of  Grass  became 
for  the  third  time  a  book  without  a  publisher. 
For  more  than  five  years  its  author  had  been 
putting  forth  the  best  powers  that  lay  in  him, 
and  the  net  result  was  that  outside  of  a  small 
group  of  ill-matched  admirers,  he  was  known  to 
a  few  hundred  people  as  a  man  who  was  said  to 
have  written  a  bizarre  and  indecent  book.  Yet 
he  accepted  with  a  tranquil  patience,  like  that 
of  the  stage-drivers  whom  he  loved,  "  good  day's 
work  and  bad  day's  work  "  alike,  and  seemed, 
outwardly  at  least,  to  concern  himself  no  longer 
with  his  literary  reputation. 

If  he  may  be  said  to  have  had  any  regular 
occupation  during  1860  and  1861  it  was  that  of 
acting  as  a  volunteer  nurse  to  the  sick  and  dis- 


LEAVES   OF  GRASS  131 

abled  stage-drivers.  Dr.  D.  B.  St  John  Roosa,  in 
1860  a  house  surgeon  of  the  old  New  York  Hos- 
pital on  Broadway,  facing  Pearl  Street,  wrote 
in  1896  an  interesting  account 1  of  Whitman's 
services.  The  poet,  scrupulously  dressed  in  blue- 
flannel  coat  and  vest,  with  gray,  baggy  trousers, 
and  woolen  shirt  open  at  the  throat,  was  freely 
admitted  to  the  hospital.  He  was  deeply  moved 
by  the  sufferings  of  his  disabled  friends,  and 
they,  as  well  as  the  young  doctors  belonging  to 
the  house  staff,  found  his  presence  restful  and 
helpful.  He  talked  much  of  books  and  poetry, 
but  not  about  himself.  When  the  doctors  were 
off  duty,  he  often  went  with  them  to  Pfaff's,  for 
a  glass  of  beer.  Smoking  was  then,  as  always, 
distasteful  to  him,  but  he  would  sit  for  hours 
with  these  young  surgeons,  listening  to  their  talk, 
and  then  saunter  back  to  the  hospital  and  re- 
turn tardily  to  his  mother's  house  in  Brooklyn. 
He  was  greatly  changed,  inwardly  and  outwardly, 
from  the  dapper  young  editor,  with  tall  hat, 
light  cane,  and  boutonniere,  who  had  so  light- 
heartedly  promenaded  Broadway,  twenty  years 
before. 

1  For  the  New  York  Mail  and  Express.   It  was  copied  in 
the  Philadelphia  Telegraph  for  June  30,  1896,  and  elsewhere. 


CHAPTER   IV 

WAR-TIME 

1  "  Those  who  joined  the  ranks  and  fought  the  battles  of 
the  Republic  did  well ;  but  when  the  world  knows,  as  it  is 
beginning  to  know,  how  this  man,  without  any  encouragement 
from  without,  under  no  compulsion,  simply,  without  beat  of 
drum  or  any  cheers  of  approval,  went  down  into  those  im- 
mense lazar  houses  and  devoted  his  days  and  nights,  his  heart 
jmd  soul,  and  at  last  his  health  and  life,  to  America's  sick  and 
wounded  sons,  it  will  say  that  he  did  even  better." 

R.  M.  BUCKB. 

WITH  the  bombardment  of  Fort  Sumter,  on 
April  12,  1861,  began  the  Civil  War.  The 
news  reached  New  York  late  at  night.  Whitman, 
who  had  been  attending  the  opera  in  Fourteenth 
Street,  was  walking  down  Broadway  about  twelve 
o'clock,  on  his  way  back  to  Brooklyn,  when  he 
heard  the  cries  of  the  newsboys  with  their  ex- 
tras. Securing  a  copy,  he  stepped  into  the  bril- 
liantly lighted  Metropolitan  Hotel  to  read  it.  A 
crowd  gathered,  listened  in  silence  as  some  one 
read  aloud  the  ominous  dispatch,  and  as  silently 
dispersed.  The  time  for  argument  was  over. 

For  the  next  eighteen  months  there  is  practi- 
cally no  record  of  Walt  Whitman.  His  brother 


WAR-TIME  133 

George,  who  was  ten  years  younger,  enlisted 
promptly  in  the  51st  New  York  Volunteers, 
largely  a  Brooklyn  regiment.  When  the  disas- 
trous battle  of  Bull  Run  was  fought  in  July, 
Walt  was  at  home ;  and  here  he  remained  until 
George  was  wounded  before  Fredericksburg, 
Virginia,  in  December,  1862.  That  he  was  pro- 
foundly moved  by  the  struggle  is  written  clearly 
enough  in  Drum-Taps,  —  a  volume  of  verse 
which  was  chiefly  composed  before  the  end  of 
1862,  —  and  in  many  later  prose  memoranda.1 
Whether  he  thought  at  first  of  enlisting  is  not 
known.  On  April  10,  1864,  when  engaged  in 
heroic  service  as  a  volunteer  nurse  for  soldiers, 
he  wrote  to  his  mother :  "  The  war  must  be 
carried  on,  and  I  could  willingly  go  myself  in 
the  ranks  if  I  thought  it  would  profit  more  than 
at  present,  and  I  don't  know  sometimes,  but  I 
shall  as  it  is."  No  criticism  of  Whitman  is  more 
short-sighted  than  that  which  has  condemned  him 
for  not  personally  shouldering  a  musket.  That 
he  had  strength,  courage,  and  patriotism,  he 
amply  proved,  upon  a  field  far  more  terrible 

1  In  H.  B.  Binns's  Walt  Whitman,  p.  181,  there  is  printed, 
from  the  Harned  MSS.,  a  vow  written  in  Whitman's  note-book 
on  April  16, 1861 :  "  I  have  this  day,  this  hour,  resolved  to  in- 
augurate for  myself  a  pure,  perfect,  sweet,  clean-blooded  robust 
body,  by  ignoring  all  drinks  but  water  and  pure  milk,  and  all 
fat  meats,  late  suppers  —  a  great  body,  a  purged,  cleansed, 
spiritualized,  invigorated  body." 


134  WALT  WHITMAN 

than  that  of  actual  battle.  But  he  had  not  "  a 
warlike  nature,"  —  as  Goethe  quietly  said  of 
himself  when  reproached  with  not  emulating 
Korner.  It  is  inconceivable  that  he  could  have 
made  an  effective  soldier.  The  requisite  obedi- 
ence, swiftness  of  action,  effacement  of  personal 
conviction,  were  not  in  him.  His  "  call,"  as  his 
Quaker  forbears  would  have  said,  was  to  save 
life  rather  than  to  take  it.  So,  through  the 

"  Year  that  trembled  and  reel'd  beneath  me," 

Whitman  tarried  with  his  mother,  visiting  his 
sick  stage-drivers,  reading  the  bulletins  from  the 
front,  and  describing  in  passionate  verse  the 
troops  that  marched  proudly  southward  through 
Manhattan  to  preserve  the  old  Union  of  the 
States. 

It  was  late  in  the  second  year  of  the  war  that 
the  Whitmans,  then  living  on  Portland  Avenue, 
Brooklyn,  were  startled  by  the  news  that  George 
had  been  seriously  wounded  in  an  engagement 
of  December  13th.  Walt  immediately  left  for 
the  front.  His  pocket  was  picked  in  Philadel- 
phia, and  he  arrived  in  Washington  without  a 
dime.  Here  he  lost  two  anxious  days  seeking 
information  and  assistance.  Luckily  he  ran 
across  his  Boston  friend,  W.  D.  O'Connor,  who 
had  become  a  clerk  in  the  Light-House  Bureau. 
O'Connor,  remarking  cheerfully  that  a  pick- 


WAR-TIME  135 

pocket  who  couldn't  rob  Walt  ought  to  be 
ashamed  of  himself,  helped  the  poet  on  his  way. 
On  the  19th  he  reached  the  camp  of  the  51st 
New  York  at  Falmouth,  Virginia,  opposite  Fred- 
ericksburg  and  about  fifty  miles  from  Washing- 
ton. George,  a  silent,  tough-fibred  captain  of 
infantry,  was  already  out  of  danger.  Walt  tele- 
graphed the  good  news  home,  and  spent  the  next 
eight  or  nine  days  among  the  homesick  and  un- 
comfortably quartered  troops.  Their  sufferings 
affected  him  deeply,  and  returning  to  Wash- 
ington in  company  with  some  of  the  wounded 
and  penniless,  he  could  not  make  up  his  mind  to 
leave  them. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  O'Connor  hospitably  offered 
him  a  room  in  their  house,  394  L  Street,  near 
Fourteenth.  Major  Hapgood,  an  army  paymas- 
ter, —  whose  temporary  clerk  was  C.  W.  El- 
dridge,  the  now  bankrupt  publisher  of  the  1860 
edition  of  Leaves  of  Grass,  —  at  once  gave 
Whitman  a  desk  in  his  office,  with  two  or  three 
hours'  work  a  day  in  copying  documents.  In  a 
few  days  he  felt  settled  for  an  indefinite  stay, 
and  began  to  write  long  letters  home  about 
his  "  poor  fellows  "  in  the  hospitals.  He  corre- 
sponded, too,  with  Brooklyn  and  New  York 
papers,  and  did  a  little  hack  work  for  the  local 
press.  By  February  he  secured  letters  to  Seward, 
Chase,  Sunnier,  and  other  political  leaders,  in 


136  WALT  WHITMAN 

the  hope  of  getting  an  office  that  would  adequately 
support  him ;  but  he  hesitated,  without  backing 
of  some  sort,  to  present  his  letters  to  Seward 
and  Chase,  and  though  Sunmer  "talked  and 
acted  as  though  he  had  life  in  him,"  l  it  was  two 
years  before  anything  came  of  it.  In  March  his 
mind  seemed  to  go  back  wistfully  to  the  manu- 
scripts he  had  left  in  Brooklyn.  "  Mother,"  2  he 
writes,  "  when  you  or  Jeff  write  again,  tell  me 
if  my  papers  and  MSS.  are  all  right ;  I  should 
be  very  sorry  indeed  if  they  got  scattered  or  used 
up  or  anything  —  especially  the  copy  of  Leaves 
of  Grass  covered  in  blue  paper,  and  the  little 
MS.  book  Drum  Taps,  and  the  MS.  tied  up  in 
the  square,  spotted  (stone-paper)  loose  covers  — 
I  want  them  all  carefully  kept." 

But  writing  was,  for  the  present,  thrust  to  the 
background.  During  these  early  months  of  1863 
Washington  had  become  a  huge  hospital  where 
more  than  fifty  thousand  sick  and  wounded  sol- 
diers were  suffering.  Public  buildings  like  the 
Patent  Office,  and  even  at  times  the  Capitol, 
were  pressed  into  service.  There  were  more  than 
a  dozen  great  hospital  barracks  in  the  city  itself ; 
one  of  the  largest  being  the  Armory  Square  hos- 
pital, near  the  present  site  of  the  Pennsylvania 
Railroad  Station.  Rude  convalescent  camps  dot- 

1  Letter  of  W.  to  "  Jeff,"  Feb.  13,  1863. 

2  March  31,  1863. 


WAR-TIME  137 

ted  the  barren  slopes  beyond  the  city  limits. 
The  army  surgeons  and  nurses  did  their  best, 
but  their  resources  were  constantly  over-taxed. 
The  situation  was  appalling.  And  here  Whitman 
showed  his  noblest  traits  of  character.  Beginning 
with  the  Brooklyn  boys  whom  he  knew,  he  set  out 
daily,  on  his  own  responsibility,  to  minister  to 
the  wounded.  A  natural  nurse,  and  aided  by  his 
experience  in  visiting  the  sick  in  the  old  New 
York  Hospital,  he  perceived  at  once  the  oppor- 
tunity for  countless  services  for  which  the  pro- 
fessional nurses  had  neither  the  time,  the  tact,  nor 
the  loving  interest  in  individuals.1  He  recog- 
nized no  difference  now  between  Rebels  and 
Federals.  He  wrote  last  messages  for  the  dying, 
and  letters  to  sweethearts.  For  those  who  were 
able  to  write  for  themselves,  he  left  paper  and 
stamped  envelopes.  From  the  haversack  which 
he  carried  on  his  daily  and  nightly  rounds,  he 
would  take  an  orange,  an  apple,  some  lemons, 
a  portion  of  tobacco,  or  some  cheerful  reading 
matter,  and  distribute  them  as  there  was  need. 
Kindly  people  in  Brooklyn,  Boston,  Salem,  Prov- 
idence,—  among  them  James  Redpath,  Emer- 

1  See  Whitman's  letters  to  the  N.  Y.  Times,  February  2f>, 
1863;  Brooklyn  Eagle,  March  19,  1863;  and  Times,  Dec.  11, 
1864.  These,  together  with  Whitman's  letters  in  war-time  to 
his  mother,  published  under  the  title  of  "  The  Wound  Dresser," 
are  printed  in  Volume  VII  of  the  Camden  Edition. 


138  WALT  WHITMAN 

son,1  and  Wendell  Phillips, —  sent  him  small 
sums  of  money  for  the  most  destitute  soldiers. 
He  had  not  much  to  give,  at  best,  but  he  gave 
it  with  a  loving  word  or  look  or  caress,  and 
passed  on.  Sometimes  he  would  stay  to  read 
aloud,  or  to  start  the  game  of  Twenty  Questions. 
With  the  more  critical  cases  he  would  sit  for 
hours,  soothing  and  cheering  the  tormented 
body  with  his  calm,  wholesome  physical  presence, 
and  comforting  the  soul  with  tender  sympathy. 
One  of  his  letters  to  his  mother,  in  the  homely 
language  which  he  always  used  to  her,  describes 
a  typical  incident.  It  has  frequently  been 
quoted :  — 

"  This  afternoon,  July  22d,  I  have  spent  a  long 
time  with  Oscar  F.  Wilber,  Company  Gr,  154th 
New  York,  low  with  chronic  diarrhoea  and  a 
bad  wound  also.  He  asked  me  to  read  him  a 
chapter  in  the  New  Testament.  I  complied,  and 
ask'd  him  what  I  should  read.  He  said,  4  Make 
your  own  choice.'  I  open'd  at  the  close  of  one 
of  the  first  books  of  the  evangelists,  and  read 
the  chapters  describing  the  latter  hours  of  Christ, 
and  the  scenes  at  the  crucifixion.  The  poor, 
wasted  young  man  ask'd  me  to  read  the  follow- 
ing chapter  also,  how  Christ  rose  again.  I  read 
very  slowly,  for  Oscar  was  feeble.  It  pleased 

1  See  the  letters  printed  in  T.  Donaldson's  Walt  Whitman, 
the  Man.  New  York,  1896. 


WAR-TIME  139 

him  very  much,  yet  the  tears  were  in  his  eyes. 
He  ask'd  me  if  I  enjoy'd  religion.  I  said  *  Per- 
haps not,  my  dear,  in  the  way  you  mean,  and 
yet,  may-be,  it  is  the  same  thing/  He  said,  *  It 
is  my  chief  reliance.'  He  talked  of  death,  and 
said  he  did  not  fear  it.  I  said  '  Why,  Oscar, 
don't  you  think  you  will  get  well  ?  '  He  said  '  I 
may,  but  it  is  not  probable.'  He  spoke  calmly 
of  his  condition.  The  wound  was  very  bad,  it 
discharg'd  much.  Then  the  diarrhoea  had  pros- 
trated him,  and  I  felt  he  was  even  then  the  same 
as  dying.  He  behaved  very  manly  and  affection- 
ate. The  kiss  I  gave  him  as  I  was  about  leaving 
he  return 'd  fourfold.  Pie  gave  me  his  mother's 
address,  Mrs.  Sally  D.  Wilber,  Alleghany  Post 
Office,  Cattaraugus  County,  N.  Y.  I  had  several 
such  interviews  with  him.  He  died  a  few  days 
after  the  one  just  described." 

His  working  theory  he  described  as  "  consci- 
entious personal  investigation  of  cases,  each  for 
itself ;  with  sharp,  critical  faculties,  but  in  the 
fullest  spirit  of  human  sympathy  and  boundless 
love."  He  believed  that  the  mere  presence  of  a 
atrong,  generous-souled  man  or  woman,  sending 
out  invisible  currents  of  affection,  was  better  for 
the  sick  than  any  medicine.  And  many  a  hard- 
headed  army  surgeon,  who  closely  watched  the 
benignant  gray-haired  poet  as  he  went  his  rounds, 
thought  that  he  was  right, 


140  WALT  WHITMAN 

Months  passed  before  he  began  to  feel  the 
daily  drafts  upon  his  splendid  vitality.  In  the 
presence  of  death  and  dreadful  operations  he 
was  able,  he  wrote  his  mother,  to  "  keep  singu- 
larly cool ;  but  often  hours  afterwards,  perhaps 
when  I  am  home  or  out  walking  alone,  I  feel 
sick  and  actually  tremble  when  I  recall  the 
thing  and  have  it  in  my  mind  again  before  me." 
By  May  the  wounded  from  the  bloody  battle  of 
Chancellorsville  were  brought  to  Washington, 
sometimes  at  the  rate  of  a  thousand  men  a  day, 
and  the  doctors  cautioned  Whitman  about  re- 
maining too  steadily  in  the  air  of  the  hospitals. 
But  he  determined  to  stay  with  his  boys  through 
the  heated  term.  In  July  came  the  battle  of 
Gettysburg.  His  hospitable  friends,  the  O'Con- 
nors, moved  to  another  house,  but  Walt  lingered 
for  a  time  in  his  tiny  third-story  room,  getting 
his  own  breakfast,  and  buying  one  other  meal  a 
day  at  a  restaurant.  He  was  spending  upon  the 
sick  every  penny  he  could  save.  The  old  dream 
of  making  money  by  lecturing  recurred  again, 
but  even  he  could  see  that  it  was  an  unpropi- 
tious  time. 

The  heat  that  summer  grew  terrific.  Once  in  a 
while  Whitman  had  a  glimpse  of  Lincoln,  who 
was  staying  by  his  post.  "  He  looks  more  care- 
worn even  than  usual,"  he  wrote,  "  his  face  with 
deep  cut  lines,  seams,  and  his  complexion  gray 


WAR-TIME  141 

through  very  dark  skin —  a  curious  looking  man, 
very  sad."  In  August  Whitman's  letters  to  his 
mother  betrayed  an  unusual  depression  :  "  I  be- 
lieve there  is  not  much  but  trouble  in  this  world, 
and  if  one  has  n't  any  for  himself  he  has  it  made 
up  by  having  it  brought  close  to  him  through 
others,  and  that  is  sometimes  worse  than  to  have 
it  touch  one's  self."  His  brother  Andrew  was 
seriously  ill.  "  Jeff,"  who  now  had  young  chil- 
dren of  his  own,  and  was  supporting  the  aged 
mother,  was  likely  to  be  drafted  for  service. 
These  home  anxieties  pressed  upon  Walt,  and  his 
tender  heart  revolted  from  the  daily  sight  of  the 
aftermath  of  war.  "  Mother,  one's  heart  grows 
sick  of  war,  after  all,  when  you  see  what  it 
really  is ;  every  once  in  a  while  I  feel  so  horri- 
fied and  disgusted  —  it  seems  to  me  like  a  great 
slaughter-house  and  the  men  mutually  butchering 
each  other  —  then  I  feel  how  impossible  it  ap- 
pears, again,  to  retire  from  this  contest,  until  we 
have  carried  our  points  (it  is  cruel  to  be  so  tossed 
from  pillar  to  post  in  one's  judgment)." 

So  the  months  dragged  by  until  October.  He 
moved  into  new  quarters,  a  garret  room  in  a 
shabby  tenement  at  456  Sixth  Street.  He  began 
to  hunger  for  a  sight  of  his  mother.  He  had  no 
money  for  the  journey,  but  John  Hay  —  then 
twenty -five,  Lincoln's  private  secretary,  and  an 
admirer  of  Leaves  of  Grass  —  quietly  arranged 


142  WALT  WHITMAN 

for   his   transportation,  as   the   following   note 
shows :  — 

EXECUTIVE  MANSION,  Washington,  October  9,  1863. 

MY  DEAR  O'CONNOR,  —  If  you  will  come  over 
to  me  I  can  arrange  that  matter  for  you. 
Yours  truly, 

JOHN  HAY.1 

Whitman  stayed  in  Brooklyn  about  a  month. 
He  found  his  mother  in  good  heart,  but  the  life 
of  cities  seemed  less  satisfactory  than  of  old.  A 
new  wave  of  creative  impulse  arose  within  him, 
and  he  felt  once  more  that  his  true,  if  brief,  voca- 
tion was  that  of  a  poet.  Here  is  a  striking  letter 
to  Charles  W.  Eldridge,  hitherto  imprinted :  — 

BROOKLYN, 

Nov.  17,  1863. 

DEAR  FRIEND, 

I  suppose  Nelly  has  received  a  letter  from  me 
posting  you  up  of  my  doings,  &c.  Any  letters 
that  come  to  me,  up  to  Saturday  next,  please 
send  on  here.  After  that,  do  not  send  any,  as 
I  shall  return  Monday  or  Tuesday  next.  The 
weather  here  the  last  three  days  is  very  un- 
pleasant, sloppy  and  thick.  I  was  at  the  opera 
last  night,  Trovatore  —  very,  very  good  singing 
&  acting. 

1  This  note  is  endorsed  in  pencil  by  O'Connor :  "  Rel.  get- 
ting ticket  to  N.  Y.for  W.  W." 


WAR-TIME  143 

I  feel  to  devote  myself  more  and  more  to  the 
work  of  my  life,  which  is  making  poems.  I  must 
bring  out  Drum  Taps.  I  must  be  continually 
bringing  out  poems  —  now  is  the  hey  day  —  I 
shall  range  along  the  high  plateau  of  my  life  and 
capacity  for  a  few  years  now,  &  then  swiftly  de- 
scend. The  life  here  in  the  cities,  &  the  objects, 
&c  of  most,  seem  to  me  very  flippant  and  shal- 
low somehow  since  I  returned  this  time.  .  .  . 
My  New  York  boys  are  good,  too  good  —  if  I 
staid  here  a  month  longer  I  should  be  killed  with 
kindness.  The  great  recompense  of  my  journey 
here  is  to  see  my  mother  so  well,  &  so  bravely 
sailing  on  amid  my  troubles  and  discouragements 
like  a  noble  old  ship.  My  brother  Andrew  is 
bound  for  another  world  —  he  is  here  the  greater 
part  of  the  time.  Charley  I  think  sometimes  to 
be  a  woman  is  greater  than  to  be  a  man  —  is 
more  eligible  to  greatness,  not  the  ostensible 
article,  but  the  real  one.  Dear  Comrade  I  send 
you  my  love  &  to  William  &  Nelly  &  remember 
me  to  Major. 

WALT. 

Early  in  December  he  was  back  in  his  Wash- 
ington garret.  Andrew  died  just  after  his  return, 
and  Walt  was  homesick,  but  he  took  up  again 
a.t  once  his  volunteer  task  of  nursing.  J.  T.  Trow- 
bridge,  for  that  month  a  guest  in  the  mansion 


144  WALT  WHITMAN 

of  Secretary  Chase,  diagonally  opposite  to  Whit- 
man's tenement,  has  given  a  vivid  account  of  his 
visits  to  Walt  and  his  endeavors  to  serve  him.1 
Finding  that  Whitman  still  possessed  Emerson's 
letters  of  recommendation  to  Sumner  and  Chase, 
—  now  nearly  a  year  old, —  Trowbridge  urged 
upon  the  great  Secretary  Walt's  claim  to  an 
appointment.  But  Chase  thought  he  ought  not 
to  appoint  to  office  a  man  who  had  written  a 
"  notorious  "  book ;  and  there  the  matter  ended, 
Chase  keeping  Emerson's  letter  for  the  sake  of 
the  autograph.  Whitman  had  already  been  read- 
ing aloud  from  his  Drum- Taps  MSS.  to  Trow- 
bridge, who,  upon  his  return  to  Boston,  tried  in 
vain  to  find  a  publisher  for  the  volume. 

Driven  by  curiosity  to  see  what  was  going  on 
at  the  front,  and  thinking  that  he  could  be  as 
useful  there  as  at  Washington,  Whitman  spent 
a  few  days  in  February,  1864,  at  Culpeper,  Va. 
A.  letter 2  to  Trowbridge  gives  his  impressions  :  — 


CULPEPPEB  VA 

Feb  8 1864 

DEAR  FRIEND 

I  ought  to  have  written  to  you  before,  ac- 
knowledging the  good  package  of  books,  duly 
rec'd  by  express,  &  actively  used  since,  changing 

1  Atlantic  Monthly,  February,  1902.  Also  printed  in  Trow- 
bridge's  My  Oivn  Story.  2  Hitherto  unprmted. 


WAR-TIME  145 

them  around  in  places  where  most  needed  among 
the  soldiers  —  (I  found  a  small  hospital  of  U  S 
teamsters,  entirely  without  reading,  I  go  there 
considerable,  &  have  given  them  largely  of  your 
reading  contribution)  —  I  am  down  here  pretty 
well  toward  the  extreme  front  of  the  Army, 
eight  or  ten  miles  south  of  headquarters  ( Brandy 
Station)  —  We  had  some  fighting  here  (below 
here  on  picket  lines)  day  before  yesterday  —  We 
feared  they  the  rebs  were  advancing  upon  us  in 
our  depleted  condition,  especially  feared  their 
making  a  flank  movement  up  on  our  right. — 
We  were  all  ready  to  skedaddle  from  here  last 
night  &  expected  it  —  horses  harnessed  in  all 
directions,  &  traps  packed  up,  (we  have  held  & 
lost  Culpepper  three  or  four  times  already)  — 
but  I  was  very  sleepy  &  laid  down  &  went  to 
sleep  never  slept  fresher  or  sweeter  —  but  orders 
came  during  the  night  to  stay  for  the  present, 
there  was  no  danger — during  the  night  I  heard 
tremendous  yells,  I  got  up  &  went  out,  &  found 
it  was  some  of  the  men  returning  from  the  ex- 
treme front  —  as  day  before  yesterday  a  strong 
force,  three  corps,  were  moved  down  there  — 
there  were  portions  of  them  now  returning  —  it 
was  a  curious  sight  to  see  the  shadowy  columns 
coming  in  two  or  three  o'clock  at  night  —  I 
talked  with  the  men  —  how  good,  how  cheerful, 
how  full  of  manliness  &  good  nature  our  Ainer- 


146  WALT  WHITMAN 

lean  young  men  are  —  I  staid  last  night  at  the 
house  of  a  real  secesh  woman  Mrs.  Ashby  —  her 
husband  (dead)  a  near  relation  of  the  famous 
reb  Gen  Ashby  —  she  gave  me  a  good  supper  & 
bed  —  there  was  quite  a  squad  of  our  officers 
there  —  she  &  her  sister  paid  me  the  compli- 
ment of  talking  friendlily  &  nearly  altogether 
exclusively  with  me  —  she  was  dressed  in  very 
faded  clothes  but  her  manners  were  fine  seems 
to  be  a  traveled  educated  woman  —  quite  melan- 
choly —  said  she  had  remained  through  fearful 
troubles  &  changes  here  on  acct  of  her  children 

—  she   is   a  handsome,   middle-aged   woman  — 
poor  lady,  how  I  pitied  her,  compelled  to  live 
as  one  may  say  on  chance  &  charity,  with  her 
high  spirit. 

Dear  friend  I  am  moving  around  here  among 
the  field  hospitals  —  (O  how  the  poor  young  men 
suffer) —  &  to  see  more  of  camp  life  and  war 
scenes,  &  the  state  of  the  army  this  winter  — 
Dear  friend  I  have  much  to  tell  you,  but  must 
abruptly  close 

WALT  WHITMAN 

Write  to  me  same  address  Washington,  D  C 

—  has  Caleb  Babbitt  gone  home  from   Mason 
Hospital  —  I  left  the  book  at  Mr  Chase's 

J.  T.  TROWBRIDGB, 

Somerville,  Massachusetts. 


WAR-TIME  147 

In  the  following  month  Grant  was  made  com- 
mander-in-chief,  and  the  war  entered  upon  what 
proved  to  be  its  final  period.  "  Grant  is  here. 
We  expect  fighting  before  long,"  Whitman  wrote 
to  his  mother.  The  Army  of  the  Potomac  broke 
camp,  and  the  campaign  of  the  "  Wilderness  " 
began.  "Others  may  say  what  they  like,"  Walt 
wrote  in  April, "  I  believe  in  Grant  and  in  Lincoln, 
too."  The  hospitals  in  Washington  became  more 
crowded  than  ever,  and  the  Whitmans  were 
sorely  anxious  over  George,  whose  regiment  was 
now  doing  some  of  Grant's  kind  of  fighting.  On 
May  20th,  Walt,  who  had  moved  his  quarters  to 
a  third  story  hall  bedroom  at  502  Pennsylvania 
Avenue,  "a  miserable  place,"  wrote  to  Trow- 
bridge :  — 

WASHINGTON 

May  20  1864 

DEAR  FRIEND 

Your  welcome  gift  of  money  for  wounded 
here  ($5)  came  safe  to-day  &  is  most  acceptable 
—  Most  of  wounded  brought  up  here  now  are 
without  a  cent  —  Many  of  the  cases  appeal  very 
strongly  —  (I  sometimes  think  only  one  going 
among  the  men  as  I  do,  with  personal  feeling  & 
my  own  way  of  investigation  understands  how 
deep  &  what  sort  the  appeal  is)  —  the  hospitals 
are  very  full  —  Armory  Square  has  more  in- 
mates than  many  a  well  known  New  England 


148  WALT  WHITMAN 

village  —  I  go  as  usual  to  one  or  another  hospital 
&  to  Alexandria,  day  &  night  —  Dear  friend, 
I  shall  always  be  glad  to  hear  from  you  — 
Should  you  find  any  you  know  who  are  able  & 
who  feel  to  aid  the  wounded,  through  me,  it 
would  come  very  acceptable  now  —  sure  to 
reach  addressed 

WALT  WHITMAN 
Care  Major  Hapgood 
Paymaster  U  S  Army 
Washington 

DC 

J  T  TROWBKIDGB 
Somerville 

Massachusetts 

Less  than  a  month  thereafter,  Whitman's  hith- 
erto perfect  health  gave  way,  never  to  be  wholly 
restored.  A  few  sentences,  from  successive  let- 
ters to  his  mother,  tell  the  story :  — 

"  Mother,  if  this  campaign  was  not  in  progress 
I  should  not  stop  here,  as  it  is  now  beginning  to 
tell  a  little  upon  me,  so  many  bad  wounds,  many 
putrefied,  and  all  kinds  of  dreadful  ones,  I  have 
been  rather  too  much  with." 

"  I  believe  I  am  homesick  —  something  new 
for  me — then  I  have  seen  all  the  horrors  of 
soldiers'  life  and  not  been  kept  up  by  its  excite- 
ment ..." 

"  Mother,  I  have  not  felt  well  at  all  the  last 


WAR-TIME  149 

week.  I  had  spells  of  deathly  faintness  and  bad 
trouble  in  my  head  too." 

"  The  doctor  tells  me  I  have  continued  too  long 
in  the  hospitals,  especially  in  a  bad  place,  Armory 
building,  where  the  worst  wounds  were,  and  have 
absorbed  too  much  of  the  virus  in  my  system." 

"  I  find  it  worse  than  I  calculated." 

"  The  doctors  have  told  me  for  a  fortnight  I 
must  leave ;  that  I  need  an  entire  change  of  air, 
etc.  I  think  I  shall  come  home  for  a  short  time, 
and  pretty  soon." 

Returning  to  Brooklyn,  Whitman  remained 
there,  slowly  gaining  strength,  for  the  next  six 
months.  As  cold  weather  came  on  he  began  to 
visit  the  military  hospitals  in  and  near  New  York. 
The  Times  for  December  11  contained  a  long- 
delayed  letter  describing  his  Washington  experi- 
ences. He  wrote  frequently  to  O'Connor  and  to 
Eldridge,  telling  of  his  progress  toward  recovery, 
and  making  frequent  mention  of  Drum-Taps : 
"  I  intend  to  move  heaven  and  earth  to  publish 
my  Drum-Taps  as  soon  as  I  am  able  to  go 
around."  The  most  interesting  of  these  letters 
is  dated  on  January  6,  1865. l  The  opening  para- 
graph refers  to  a  new  application  for  office, 
which  was  shortly  to  prove  successful. 

1  I  am  indebted  to  Mrs.  Ellen  M.  Calder,  formerly  Mrs. 
W.  D.  O'Connor,  for  this  and  many  other  unpublished  letters 
to  and  from  O'Connor. 


150  WALT  WHITMAN 

BROOKLYN,  January  6,  1865. 

DEAR  FRIEND  : 

Your  welcome  letter  of  December  30th  came 
safe.  I  have  written  and  sent  my  application  to 
Mr.  Otto  and  also  a  few  lines  to  Mr.  Ashton 
with  a  copy  of  it.  I  am  most  desirous  to  get 
the  appointment  as  enclosing  with  the  rest  of 
the  points,  my  attention  to  the  soldiers  and  to 
my  poems,  as  you  intimate. 

It  may  be  Drum  Taps  may  come  out  this 
winter  yet  (in  the  way  I  have  mentioned  in  times 
past).  It  is  in  a  state  to  put  right  through,  a 
perfect  copy  being  ready  for  the  printer.  I  feel 
at  last,  and  for  the  first  time  without  any  demur, 
that  I  am  satisfied  with  it  —  content  to  have  it 
go  to  the  world  verbatim  and  punctuatim.  It  is 
in  my  opinion  superior  to  Leaves  of  Grass  — 
certainly  more  perfect  as  a  work  of  art,  being 
adjusted  in  all  its  proportions  and  its  passion 
having  the  indispensable  merit  that  though  to 
the  ordinary  reader  let  loose  with  wildest  aban- 
don, the  true  artist  can  see  that  it  is  yet  under 
control.  But  I  am  perhaps  mainly  satisfied  with 
Drum  Taps  because  it  delivers  my  ambition  of 
the  task  that  has  haunted  me,  namely,  to  express 
in  a  poem  (and  in  the  way  I  like,  which  is  not  at 
all  by  directly  stating  it),  the  pending  action  of 
this  Time  and  Land  we  swim  in^  with  all  their 
large  conflicting  fluctuations  of  despair  and  hope. 


WAR-TIME  151 

the  shiftings,  masses,  and  the  whirl  and  deafening 
din,  (yet  over  all,  as  by  invisible  hand,  a  definite 
purport  and  idea)  with  the  unprecedented  an- 
guish of  wounded  and  suffering,  the  beautiful 
young  men  in  wholesale  death  and  agony,  every- 
thing sometimes  as  if  blood-color  and  dripping 
blood.  The  book  is  therefore  unprecedentedly 
sad  (as  these  days  are,  are  they  not?),  but  it 
also  has  the  blast  of  the  trumpet  and  the  drum, 
pounds  and  whirrs  in  it,  and  then  an  undertone 
of  sweetest  comradeship  and  human  love  threads 
its  steady  thread  inside  the  chaos  and  is  heard  at 
every  lull  and  interstice  thereof.  Truly  also,  it 
has  clear  notes  of  faith  and  triumph. 

Drum  Taps  has  none  of  the  perturbations  of 
Leaves  of  Grass.  I  am  satisfied  with  Leaves  of 
Grass  (by  far  the  most  of  it)  as  expressing  what 
was  intended,  namely,  to  express  by  sharp-cut  self- 
assertion,  One's- Self,  and  also,  or  may  be,  still 
more,  to  map  out,  to  throw  together  for  American 
use,  a  gigantic  embryo  or  skeleton  of  Personality, 
fit  for  the  West,  for  native  models :  but  there  are 
a  few  things  I  shall  carefully  eliminate  in  the  next 
issue  and  a  few  more  I  shall  considerably  change. 

I  see  I  have  said  I  consider  Drum  taps  supe- 
rior to  Leaves  of  Grass.  I  probably  mean 1  as  a 
piece  of  art  and  from  the  more  simple  and 

1  ("  Is  n't  this  deliriously  characteristic  of  Wally !  ! "  W.  D. 
O'C.) 


152  WALT  WHITMAN 

winning  nature  of  the  subject  and  also  because 
I  have  in  it  only,  succeeded  to  my  satisfaction  in 
removing  all  superfluity  —  verbal  superfluity,  I 
mean.  I  delight  to  make  a  poem  where  I  feel 
clear  that  not  a  word  but  is  an  indispensable 
part  thereof  and  of  my  meaning. 

Still  Leaves  of  Grass  is  dear  to  me,  always 
dearest  to  me  as  my  first-born,  as  daughter  of  my 
life's  first  hopes,  doubts,  and  the  putting  in 
form  of  those  days  efforts  and  aspirations.  True, 
I  see  now  some  things  in  it  I  should  not  put  in 
if  I  were  to  write  now,  but  yet  I  shall  certainly 
let  them  stand,  even  if  but  for  proofs  of  phases 
passed  away.1  .  .  . 

A  month  later  he  was  writing  to  Trowbridgo 
from  Washington  :  — 

WASHINGTON,  Monday, 

February  6,  1865 
MY  DEAR  FRIEND  : 

As  you  see  by  the  date  of  this,  I  am  back 
again  in  Washington,  moving  around  regularly, 
but  not  to  excess,  among  the  hospitals.  .  .  .  My 
health  is  pretty  good,  but  since  I  was  prostrated 
last  July,  I  have  not  had  that  unconscious  and 
perfect  health  I  formerly  had.  The  physician 
says  my  system  has  been  penetrated  by  the  ma- 


is  all  about  the  book.    The  rest  of  the  letter  is 
family  affairs,  &c."   W.  D.  O'C.) 


WAR-TIME  153 

laria,  —  it  is  tenacious,  peculiar  and  somewhat 
baffling  —  but  tells  me  it  will  go  over  in  due 
time.  It  is  my  first  appearance  in  the  character 
of  a  man  not  entirely  well.  .  .  . 

This  was  a  happy  month  for  Whitman. 
George,  who  had  been  for  some  time  a  prisoner 
of  war,  was  exchanged,  and  then  came  the  long- 
deferred  appointment  for  Walt  himself,  to  a 
clerkship  in  the  Indian  Bureau,  in  the  Depart- 
ment of  the  Interior.  He  writes  to  Trowbridge 
on  March  3  :  — 

"I  believe  I  told  you  I  was  working  a  few 
hours  a  day,  a  sufficiently  remunerative  desk  in 
the  Indian  Office  —  I  spend  a  couple  of  hours 
day  or  evening  in  the  hospitals." 

The  next  day  Lincoln  took  the  oath  of  office 
for  the  second  time.  Whitman  saw  him  driving 
from  the  Capitol.  "  He  was  in  his  plain  two- 
horse  barouche,  and  look'd  very  much  worn  and 
tired ;  the  lines,  indeed,  of  vast  responsibilities, 
intricate  questions  and  demands  of  life  and  death, 
cut  deeper  than  ever  upon  his  dark  brown  face ; 
yet  all  the  old  goodness,  tenderness,  sadness  and 
canny  shrewdness,  underneath  the  furrows." 

It  was  the  last  time,  apparently,  that  he  looked 
upon  Lincoln's  face.  The  two  men  had  never 
spoken.  Returning  to  Brooklyn  for  a  few  weeks 
to  make  final  arrangements  for  printing  Drum- 


154  WALT  WHITMAN 

Taps  at  his  own  expense,  Whitman  was  at  home 
with  his  mother  when  the  news  came  on  the 
morning  of  April  15  that  the  President  had  been 
shot  the  night  before. 

"  Mother  prepared  breakfast  —  and  other 
meals  afterward  —  as  usual ;  but  not  a  mouth- 
ful was  eaten  all  day  by  either  of  us.  We  each 
drank  half  a  cup  of  coffee  ;  that  was  all.  Little 
was  said.  We  got  every  newspaper  morning  and 
evening,  and  the  frequent  extras  of  that  period, 
and  pass'd  them  silently  to  each  other." 

It  was  lilac-time  in  the  straggling,  half-rural 
Brooklyn  streets,  and  the  sight  and  odor  of  the 
blossoms  were  at  once  and  forever  associated, 
in  Whitman's  mind,  with  the  tragedy.  The  first 
edition  of  Drum-  Taps l  was  already  printing,  but 
Whitman  began  immediately  to  compose  the 
Lincoln  dirge  "  When  Lilacs  Last  in  the  Door- 
Yard  Bloomed,"  as  well  as  the  briefer  lyric 
upon  the  dead  leader,  entitled  "  O  Captain ! 
My  Captain."  These,  with  a  few  other  less 
nota,ble  pieces,  formed  the  Sequel  to  Drum- 
Taps,2  which  was  separately  printed,  but  is  often 
bound  with  the  unsold  copies  of  the  first  edition. 

This  book  fitly  summarizes  the  profound  im- 

1  Walt  Whitman's  Drum-Taps,  New  York,  1865. 

2  Sequel  to  Drum-Taps  (Since  the  preceding  came  from  the 
press),  When  Lilacs  Last  in  the  Door-Yard  Bloom' d  and  Other 
Poems,  Washington,  1865-66. 


WAR-TIME  155 

pression  made  upon  Whitman's  mind  by  the 
long  conflict.  As  we  have  seen,  it  was  eighteen 
months  after  the  war  began  before  he  went  to 
Washington.  For  two  periods  of  a  few  days 
each  he  was  at  the  front,  though  he  saw  no  ac- 
tual fighting.  Previous  to  April,  1865,  he  had 
spent  about  twenty  months,  all  told,  in  daily 
ministrations  to  the  sick,  utilizing  all  the  time 
and  strength  that  remained  to  him  after  the 
hours  of  hack  work  by  which  he  had  earned  a 
wretched  living.  During  this  period  he  made, 
according  to  his  own  diaries,  about  six  hundred 
visits  to  the  hospitals,  and  ministered  to  between 
eighty  and  a  hundred  thousand  sick  and  wounded. 
But  all  such  figures  fail  to  show  the  terrible 
drama  of  hopes,  fears,  and  sorrows  which  he 
witnessed  at  close  view,  and  in  which  he  person- 
ally shared.  "  The  real  war,"  as  he  himself 
said, "  will  never  get  in  the  books."  Yet  Walt 
Whitman's  Drum-Taps  embody  the  very  spirit 
of  the  civil  conflict,  picturing  war  with  a  poig- 
nant realism,  a  terrible  and  tender  beauty,  such 
as  only  the  great  masters  of  literature  have  been 
able  to  compass. 

Here  the  reader  may  still  feel  the  electric  shock 
of  that  first  alarm,  as  the  drums  and  bugles 
sound  ;  the  ideal  passion  for  the  Flag  ;  the  sinewy 
tread  of  the  volunteer  soldiery,  moving  so  ma- 
jestically that  it  seems  as  if  Democracy,  or  even 


156  WALT  WHITMAN 

Mankind  itself,  were  rising  from  its  lethargy. 
Here  are  the  pictured  march  and  fight :  the 
cavalry  crossing  the  ford,  the  crashing  and  smok- 
ing artillery,  the  bivouac,  the  field  hospital  at 
night,  the  vigil,  and  the  gaunt,  ivory  faces  of  the 
dead.  There  is  no  sectional  anger  or  hatred,  but 
rather  a  prophecy,  even  in  the  midst  of  carnage, 
of  an  ultimate  reconciliation  and  comradeship. 
Yet  in  the  meantime  the  tragic  penalty  must  be 
paid  in  full,  and  paid  by  the  innocent ;  the  homely 
pathos  of  "  Come  up  from  the  fields,  Father" 
is  such  that  no  American  with  a  memory  can 
read  it  without  tears.  Most  of  the  poems  in 
Drum- Taps  are  brief,  restrained,  and  subdued 
to  a  rhythmical  —  sometimes  even  a  metrical  — 
regularity  unusual  in  Whitman's  verse.  "  Ethio- 
pia Saluting  the  Colors,"  and  "  O  Captain ! 
My  Captain !  "  are  almost  conventional  in  their 
structure;  and  the  latter,  on  this  account,  has 
had  a  wide  popularity  among  readers  who  are 
indifferent  to  Whitman's  other  and  more  charac- 
teristic productions.  For  solemnity  and  power 
no  poem  in  the  little  volume  is  comparable  to  the 
threnody,  "When  Lilacs  Last  in  the  Door- Yard 
Bloom'd,"  which  Swinburne,  under  the  spell  of 
his  first  enthusiasm  for  Whitman,  called  "  the 
most  sonorous  nocturn  ever  chanted  in  the  church 
of  the  world."  The  lilacs  of  April,  the  star 
drooping  in  the  west,  the  hermit-thrush  singing 


WAR-TIME  157 

in  the  cedar  swamp,  are  the  three  motifs  of  the 
dirge  :  — 

"  Lilac  and  star  and  bird  twined  with  the  chant  of  iny 
soul." 

It  remains,  with  Lowell's  Commemoration  Ode, 
as  the  finest  imaginative  product  of  the  Civil 
War  period.  Never  but  once  before,  in  "  Out  of 
the  Cradle  Endlessly  Rocking,"  and  never  after- 
ward, was  Whitman  capable  of  such  sustained 
and  deep-toned  recitative,  varied  with  lyric  in- 
terludes of  such  pure  beauty.  The  grief  at  the 
passing  of  the  great  President  becomes  ennobled 
and  transfigured  into  a  song  of  praise  :  — 

Come  lovely  and  soothing  death, 

Undulate  round  the  world,  serenely  arriving,  arriving, 

In  the  day,  in  the  night,  to  all,  to  each, 

Sooner  or  later  delicate  death. 

Prais'd  be  the  fathomless  universe, 

For  life  and  joy,  and  for  objects  and  knowledge  curious, 
And  for  love,  sweet  love  —  but  praise  I  praise  !  praise  I 
For  the  sure-enwinding  arms  of  cool-enfolding  death. 


CHAPTER  V 
THE   CLERK  AND  HIS   FRIENDS 

"  Well,  I  read  your  poet  and  his  praises,  and  I  mention  him 
in  places  where  his  name  was  never  heard,  and  I  argue  and 
assert,  and  defy,  and  declaim,  —  and  if  I  do  not  wholly  convert 
myself,  I  do  at  least  open  some  generous  minds  to  consider. 
I  watch  the  fight  in  England  with  curious  interest."  —  GEORGE 
WILLIAM  CURTIS  to  W.  D.  O'Connor,  October  3, 1867. 

THE  close  of  the  war  brought  no  immediate 
changes  into  Whitman's  life.  For  many  months 
the  calls  to  hospital  service  seemed  as  compel- 
ling as  ever,  and  he  continued  his  visitations. 
But  little  by  little  the  strain  relaxed,  until  at 
last  he  found  himself  bound  to  only  a  few  con- 
valescents, whom  he  used  to  visit  on  Sunday 
afternoons.  For  the  Sunday  dinner  or  tea  he 
was  a  frequent  guest  at  the  friendly  table  of 
the  O'Connors,  who  had  shown  unfailing  kind- 
ness since  his  arrival  in  Washington,  penniless 
and  distressed,  in  December  of  1862.  O'Connor 
was  then  thirty, —  "a  gallant,  handsome,  gay- 
hearted,  fine-voiced,  glowing-eyed  man;  lithe- 
moving  on  his  feet,  of  healthy  and  magnetic 
atmosphere  and  presence,  and  the  most  welcome 


THE  CLERK  AND  HIS  FRIENDS        159 

company  in  the  world.  "  l  His  ambitious  novel, 
Harrington,  which  Thayer  and  Eldridge  had 
published  in  1860,  had  proved  a  practical  failure, 
and  he  was  burying  his  brilliant  talents  in  the 
routine  work  of  his  clerkship,  first  in  the  Light- 
House  Bureau,  and  afterward  in  the  Life-Saving 
Service,  of  which  he  was  assistant  superintend- 
ent at  the  time  of  his  death,  in  1889.2  O'Connor 
was  a  wide  reader,  and  had  the  Irish  gift  of  ready, 
eloquent  speech.3  His  charming  wife 4  used  to 
mend  Whitman's  socks,  and  tended  him  during 
all  the  months  that  he  stayed  under  their  roof, 
as  a  mother  might  her  big,  dreamy,  careless  boy. 
A  "  superb  woman  "  he  called  her  in  1888, 
"  without  shams,  brags  :  just  a  woman.  Ellen 
does  not  write  :  that  gives  her  more  time  to  get 
at  the  essentials  of  life." 

At  the  O'Connors'  Whitman  often  met  Charles 
Eldridge,  the  unlucky  publisher,  who  after  end- 
ing his  clerkship  under  Paymaster  Hapgood,  se- 
cured a  place  in  the  Internal  Revenue  office :  "  a 

1  Prose  Works,  p.  511. 

2  A  volume  of  tales  of  rescue,  compiled  by  C.  W.  Eldridge 
from   O'Connor's  annual   Reports,  was   published  in   Boston, 
1904,  under  the  title  Heroes  of  the  Storm. 

8  A  lifelong  friend  of  O'Connor  writes  me  :  "  He  was  a  man 
of  full  and  rich  attainments,  and  a  genius  —  needing  only  a 
brake  on  his  prodigal  and  affluent  expression.  He  gave  up  the 
better  part  of  his  career  to  Whitman  —  whom  he  excelled  in 
humanity,  aspiration,  and  self -surrender." 

4  Now  Mrs.  Ellen  M.  Calder. 


160  WALT  WHITMAN 

thoroughly  good  and  true  man  —  has  some  ways 
and  notions  of  his  own,  but  the  main  things  are 
as  solid  as  the  hills."  J  Hither,  too,  came  E.  C. 
Stedman,  already  editor  and  war  correspondent, 
and  later  to  be  known  as  banker,  poet,  man  of 
letters,  and  one  of  Whitman's  most  sane  and 
illuminating  critics. 

John  Burroughs  was  another  member  of  the 
kindly  little  circle  of  Government  employes.  A 
farmer's  son,  he  had  published  at  twenty-three  an 
unsigned  Atlantic  essay  on  "Expression"  which 
was  widely  attributed  to  Emerson,  in  whose  writ- 
ings he  had  steeped  himself.  In  1863,  at  twenty- 
six,  he  had  taught  school,  tried  his  hand  at  jour- 
nalism, and  settled  in  Washington  as  a  clerk  in  the 
Treasury.  He  had  already  received  from  Leaves 
of  Grass  such  an  impression  as  no  other  book  had 
ever  made  on  him.  Rambling  in  the  woods  near 
Washington  one  Sunday  afternoon,  he  encoun- 
tered Whitman,  who,  with  his  haversack  slung 
over  his  shoulder,  was  tramping  off  to  an  outly- 
ing hospital.  Burroughs  joined  him,  and  a  friend- 
ship began  which  ended  only  with  Whitman's 
life.  In  the  easy-going  years  that  followed  the 
war,  Walt  frequently  breakfasted  on  Sundays 
with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Burroughs  ;  invariably  arriv- 
ing late,  to  the  housekeeper's  distress,  but  bring- 
ing such  radiant  good  spirits  with  him  that  he 
was  invariably  forgiven. 

1  "  Calamus,"  Camden  Edition,  vol.  viii,  p.  112. 


THE  CLERK  AND   HIS  FRIENDS        161 

Contrasting  sharply  with  these  friendships  for 
book-loving  persons  was  Whitman's  intimacy 
with  Peter  Doyle.  Doyle  still  survives,  a  big, 
warm-hearted  Irishman,  baggage-master  on  the 
Colonial  and  Federal  express  from  Washington 
to  Boston.  The  son  of  a  blacksmith  in  Alexan- 
dria, Peter  was  but  eighteen  in  1865.  The  close 
of  the  war  found  him  a  Confederate  prisoner  on 
parole  in  Washington,  and  earning  two  dollars 
a  day  as  conductor  of  a  horsecar.  As  Whitman 
was  returning  from  John  Burroughs's  house,  one 
stormy  night,  in  Doyle's  car,  a  sudden  impulse 
led  the  young  conductor  to  sit  down  by  his  soli- 
tary passenger.  Each  was  lonely,  and  each  un- 
derstood without  words  the  other's  craving  for 
friendship.  For  the  next  half-dozen  years  they 
were  almost  daily  companions  in  leisure  hours. 
At  night  they  would  tramp  the  country  roads, 
while  Whitman  talked  about  the  stars  or  spouted 
Shakespeare.  The  minor  conventions  had  no 
terrors  for  this  pair.  "We  would  tackle  the 
farmers  who  came  into  town,  buy  a  water-melon, 
sit  down  on  the  cellar-door  of  Bacon's  grocery, 
Seventh  and  Pennsylvania  Avenue,  halve  it  and 
eat  it.  People  would  go  by  and  laugh.  Walt 
would  only  smile  and  say,  4  They  can  have  the 
laugh  —  we  have  the  melon.'  "  *  Doyle's  testi- 

1  Preface  to  Calamus.  Edited  by  R.  M.  Bucke.  Boston, 
Laurens  Maynard,  1897. 


162  WALT  WHITMAN 

mony  as  to  Whitman's  habits  is  conclusive  for 
this  period.  "I  never  knew  a  case  of  Walt's 
being  bothered  up  by  a  woman.  Woman  in  that 
sense  never  came  into  his  head.  Walt  was  too 
clean,  he  hated  anything  which  was  not  clean. 
No  trace  of  any  kind  of  dissipation  in  him.  I 
ought  to  know  about  him  those  years  —  we  were 
awful  close  together.  .  .  .  He  had  pretty  vigor- 
ous ideas  on  religion  ...  he  never  went  to 
church  —  did  n't  like  form,  ceremonies  —  did  n't 
seem  to  favor  preachers  at  all.  I  asked  him 
about  the  hereafter,  '  There  must  be  something/ 
he  said.  '  There  can't  be  a  locomotive  unless 
there  is  somebody  to  run  it.'  I  have  heard  him 
say  that  if  a  person  was  the  right  kind  of  per- 
son —  and  I  guess  he  thought  all  persons  right 
kind  of  persons  —  he  could  n't  be  destroyed  in 
the  next  world  nor  in  this."  l 

Whitman's  letters  to  this  loyal,  loving  young 
Irishman  have  been  reprinted  under  the  title 
Calamus.  Better  than  any  far-fetched  theoriz- 
ing, they  expound  Whitman's  doctrine  of  manly 
friendship,  as  laid  down  in  the  "Calamus"  group 
of  his  poems.  No  series  of  Walt's  letters,  except 
those  written  to  his  mother,  so  thoroughly  reveal 
the  simple  affection  which  furnished  the  basis  of 
his  far  from  simple  character.  It  was  natural  to 
him  to  spend  long  hours  with  a  wholesome  illit- 
1  Ibid. 


THE  CLERK  AND  HIS  FRIENDS        163 

erate  boy  whom  he  liked.  It  was  instinctive  — 
however  affected  or  mawkish  it  might  be  in  an- 
other —  to  address  Peter  Doyle  as  "dear  baby," 
"  dearest  boy,"  "  my  darling  son."  To  sit  with 
Pete  on  the  shady  side  of  Pennsylvania  Avenue, 
cutting  a  watermelon  and  smiling  back  at  the 
smiling  passers-by,  was  Whitman's  version  of 

"A  book  of  Verses  underneath  the  Bough, 
A  Jug  of  Wine,  a  Loaf  of  Bread  —  and  Thou 

Beside  me  singing  in  the  Wilderness  — 
Oh,  Wilderness  were  Paradise  enow! " 

And  Paradise  for  Paradise,  it  is  not  clear  that 
Omar  had  the  better  of  it. 

To  expect  that  a  poet  should  be  always  "  lit- 
erary," or  desirous  of  literary  company,  is  to 
betray  a  singular  ignorance  of  that  irritable 
tribe.  Many  of  Whitman's  daily  companions,  in 
the  years  of  his  clerkship,  refused  —  as,  indeed, 
many  persons  still  refuse  —  to  consider  him  a 
poet  at  all.  His  home  was  now  in  a  pleasant 
boarding-house  at  M  and  Twelfth  streets,  which 
sheltered  several  young  men  of  a  literary  turn  of 
mind.  They  frequently  discussed  their  fellow 
boarder.  One  of  the  survivors  of  this  group 
notes  :  *  "  We  did  not  think  very  highly  of  his 
writings  and  found  in  them  more  matter  for 
amusement  than  for  instruction.  But  we  all 

1  Thoroas  Proctor,  in  The  Journal  of  Hygiene,  February, 
1898. 


164  WALT  WHITMAN 

liked  the    man.  .  .  .  He   seldom   started    any 
topic,  hardly  ever  led,  and  was  never  obtrusive. 

.  .  .  He  never  complained  of  feeling  ill  or  out 
of  sorts.  .  .  .  He  used  no  tobacco  or  wine.  .  .  . 
He  was  always  chaste  in  speech,  and  that  he  was 
a  clean  man  physically  and  morally  was  the 
impression  he  made  on  the  minds  of  all  of  us. 

...  I  never  saw  him  engaged  in  reading,  or 
have  any  literature  in  his  possession,  not  even 
a  newspaper.  .  .  .  Leisureliness  in  everything 
was  one  of  his  striking  characteristics.  Some 
of  us  thought  that  he  was  physically  lazy  and 
mentally  hazy."  It  may  be  added  that  the 
author  of  these  reminiscences,  receiving  from 
Whitman  in  1868  the  gift  of  an  autographed 
copy  of  Drum- Taps,  did  not  take  the  trouble 
to  open  the  book  for  the  next  thirty  years. 

But  the  agreeable  routine  of  the  first  summer 
of  Whitman's  clerkship  was  rudely  interrupted. 
His  work  in  the  Indian  Bureau  had  never  been 
arduous,  and  he  some  times  worked  at  his  desk 
upon  a  copy  of  the  1860  edition  of  Leaves  of 
Grass,  which  he  was  slowly  revising  for  a  new 
editio:  ,  Some  one  called  the  attention  of  the 
chief  of  the  department  to  the  fact  that  the 
gray-haired  clerk  was  the  author  and  possessor 
of  an  immoral  book.  It  was  taken  from  his  desk 
after  office  hours,  and  examined  by  the  Secre- 
tary. The  result  was  the  following  note. 


THE  CLERK  AND  HIS  FRIENDS        165 

DEPARTMENT  OF  THE  INTERIOR, 
WASHINGTON,  D.  C.,  June  30th,  1865. 

The  services  of  Walter  Whitman,  of  New 
York,  as  a  clerk  in  the  Indian  Office,  will  be 
dispensed  with  from  and  after  this  date. 

JAS.  HARLAN, 
Secretary  of  the  Interior. 

Harlan,  an  able  lawyer  and  former  United 
States  Senator,  who  had  once  served  for  two  years 
as  president  of  Iowa  Wesleyan  University,  was 
probably  within  his  technical  privilege  *  in  dis- 
missing Whitman,  whatever  may  be  thought  of 
searching  a  clerk's  desk  in  his  absence.  But 
his  action  was  certainly  narrow-minded  and  un- 
just. To  the  protest  of  one  of  Whitman's  friends, 
J.  H.  Ashton,  then  assistant  in  the  Attorney- 
General's  office,  Harlan  angrily  replied  that  he 
would  himself  resign  before  reinstating  the  clerk. 
Whereupon  Ashton  quietly  secured  for  Whit- 
man a  clerkship  in  the  Attorney-General's  office, 
and  the  incident  was  apparently  closed.  Outside 
of  a  dozen  friendly  newspaper  men,  few  people 
in  Washington  heard  or  cared  about  Whitman's 
trouble  with  his  chief.  But  to  the  chivalrous 
William  O'Connor,  what  had  happened  was  not 

1  In  a  letter  written  in  1894,  Mr.  Harlan  said  that  Whitman 
was  dismissed  "  on  the  ground  that  his  services  were  not  needed. 
And  no  other  reason  was  ever  assigned  by  my  authority."  See 
Mr.  Leon  Vincent's  American  Literary  Masters,  p.  488. 


166  WALT  WHITMAN 

only  an  insult  to  his  friend,  but  an  outrage  upon 
the  Liberty  of  Literature.  For  nine  weeks 
O'Connor  nursed  his  wrath,  and  then,  with  a 
pamphlet  whose  very  title,  The  Good  Gray 
Poe^  l  was  a  stroke  of  genius,  he  rode  into  the 
lists  against  the  Secretary.  In  the  whole  history 
of  literary  controversy  there  have  been  few 
more  brilliant  pamphlets.  He  begins  by  describ- 
ing Whitman's  personal  appearance  upon  the 
streets  of  Washington,  and  how  Lincoln,  seeing 
him  for  the  first  time,  said  in  his  quaint,  sweet 
tone,  "  Well,  he  looks  like  a  MAN  I  "  Then  fol- 
lows a  depiction  of  Whitman's  character,  and 
the  circumstances  of  his  dismissal.  Admitting 
that  some  eighty  lines  out  of  a  total  of  about 
nine  thousand  published  by  Whitman  might  be 
objectionable  to  a  "  malignant  virtue,"  O'Con- 
nor passes  in  swift  survey  the  work  of  the  world's 
most  famous  writers,  and  finds  that  none  of  them 
escape  the  same  indictment.  The  debased  taste 
of  the  nineteenth  century  would  "  expurgate  " 
them  all. 

No  extracts  do  justice  to  the  sustained  heat 
and  glow  of  O'Connor's  rhetoric,  but  the  twen- 
tieth century  reader  may  be  interested  in  his 

1  Dated  September  2,  1865,  but  published  with  the  imprint 
**  New  York  :  Bunco  and  Huntington,  1866."  It  was  afterward 
reprinted,  with  some  changes,  in  R.  M.  Bucke's  Walt  Whit- 
man, New  York,  1883. 


THE  CLERK  AND  HIS  FRIENDS        167 

picture   of    the    colonialism   of   all    American 
literature  except  Leaves  of  Grass. 

"  Every  other  book  by  an  American  author 
implies,  both  in  form  and  substance,  I  cannot 
even  say  the  European,  but  the  British  mind. 
The  shadow  of  Temple  Bar  and  Arthur's  Seat 
lies  dark  on  all  our  letters.  Intellectually,  we 
are  still  a  dependency  of  Great  Britain,  and  one 
word  —  colonial  —  comprehends  and  stamps  our 
literature.  In  no  literary  form,  except  our  news- 
papers, has  there  been  anything  distinctively 
American.  I  note  our  best  books  —  the  works  of 
Jefferson,  the  romances  of  Brockden  Brown,  the 
speeches  of  Webster,  Everett's  rhetoric,  the 
divinity  of  Channing,  some  of  Cooper's  novels, 
the  writings  of  Theodore  Parker,  the  poetry  of 
Bryant,  the  masterly  law  arguments  of  Lysander 
Spooner,  the  miscellanies  of  Margaret  Fuller, 
the  histories  of  Hildreth,  Bancroft  and  Motley, 
Ticknor's  History  of  Spanish  Literature,  the 
political  treatises  of  Calhoun,  the  rich,  benig- 
nant poems  of  Longfellow,  the  ballads  of 
Whittier,  the  delicate  songs  of  Philip  Pendleton 
Cooke,  the  weird  poetry  of  Edgar  Poe,  the 
wizard  tales  of  Hawthorne,  Irving's  Knicker- 
bocker, Delia  Bacon's  splendid  sibyllic  book  on 
Shakespeare,  the  political  economy  of  Carey, 
the  prison  letters  and  immortal  speech  of  John 
Brown,  the  lofty  patrician  eloquence  of  Wendell 


168  WALT  WHITMAN 

Phillips,  and  those  diamonds  of  the  first  water, 
the  great  clear  essays  and  greater  poems  of 
Emerson.  This  literature  has  often  command- 
ing merits,  and  much  of  it  is  very  precious  to 
me  ;  but  in  respect  of  its  national  character,  all 
that  can  be  said  is  that  it  is  tinged,  more  or  less 
deeply,  with  America  ;  and  the  foreign  model, 
the  foreign  standards,  the  foreign  culture,  the 
foreign  ideas,  dominate  over  it  all." 

Then  follows  a  long  and  moving  description 
of  Whitman's  services  in  the  hospitals,  closing 
with  this  passage :  — 

"  Not  for  him,  perhaps,  the  recognition  of  his 
day  and  generation.  But  a  life  and  deeds  like 
his,  lightly  esteemed  by  men,  seek  deep  into 
the  memory  of  Man.  Great  is  the  stormy  fight 
of  Zutphen;  it  is  the  young  lion  of  English 
Protestantism  springing  in  haughty  fury  for 
the  defence  of  the  Netherlands  from  the  bloody 
ravin  of  Spain ;  but  Philip  Sidney  passing  the 
flask  of  water  from  his  own  lips  to  the  dying 
soldier  looms  gigantic,  and  makes  all  the  fore- 
ground of  its  noble  purpose  and  martial  rage ; 
and  whatever  may  be  the  verdict  of  the  present, 
sure  am  I  that  hereafter  and  to  the  latest  ages, 
when  Bull  Run  and  Shiloh  and  Port  Hudson, 
when  Vicksburg  and  Stone  River  and  Fort 
Donelson,  when  Pea  Ridge  and  Chancellorsville 
and  Gettysburg  and  the  Wilderness,  and  the 


THE  CLERK  AND   HIS  FRIENDS        169 

great  march  from  Atlanta  to  Savannah,  and 
Richmond  rolled  in  flame,  and  all  the  battles 
for  the  life  of  the  Republic  against  her  last 
internal  foe,  are  gathered  up  in  accumulated 
terraces  of  struggle  upon  the  mountain  of  his- 
tory, well  relieved  against  those  bright  and 
bloody  tumultous  giant  tableaux,  and  all  the 
dust  and  thunder  of  a  noble  war,  the  men  and 
women  of  America  will  love  to  gaze  upon  the 
stalwart  form  of  the  good  gray  poet,  bending  to 
heal  the  hurts  of  their  wounded  and  soothe  the 
souls  of  their  dying,  and  the  deep  and  simple 
words  of  the  last  great  martyr  will  be  theirs — 
'  Well,  JIG  looks  like  a  MAN  ! '  " 

The  pamphlet  ends  with  these  words :  — 
'*  I  claim  that  to  expel  an  author  from  a  pub- 
lic office  and  subject  him  to  public  contumely, 
solely  because  he  has  published  a  book  which  no 
one  can  declare  immoral  without  declaring  all  the 
grand  books  immoral,  is  to  affix  a  penalty  to 
thought,  and  to  obstruct  the  freedom  of  letters. 
.  .  .  Difference  of  opinion  there  may  and  must 
be  upon  the  topics  which  in  this  letter  I  have 
grouped  around  it,  but  upon  the  act  itself  there 
can  be  none.  As  I  drag  it  up  here  into  the  sight 
of  the  world,  I  call  upon  every  scholar,  every 
man  of  letters,  every  editor,  every  good  fellow 
everywhere  who  wields  the  pen,  to  make  common 
cause  with  me  in  rousing  upon  it  the  full  tempest 


170  WALT  WHITMAN 

of  reprobation  it  deserves.  I  remember  Tennyson, 
a  spirit  of  vengeance  over  the  desecrated  grave 
of  Moore ;  I  think  of  Scott  rolling  back  the  tide 
of  obloquy  from  Byron ;  I  see  Addison  gilding 
the  blackening  fame  of  Swift;  I  mark  South- 
ampton befriending  Shakespeare  ;  I  recall  Du 
Bellay  enshielding  Rabelais ;  I  behold  Hutten 
fortressing  Luther ;  here  is  Boccaccio  lifting  the 
darkness  from  Dante,  and  scattering  flame  on 
his  foes  in  Florence ;  this  is  Bembo  protecting 
Pomponatius ;  that  is  Grostete  enfolding  Roger 
Bacon  from  the  monkish  fury ;  there,  covered 
with  light,  is  Aristophanes  defending  JEschylus ; 
and  if  there  lives  anght  of  that  old  chivalry  of 
letters,  which  in  all  ages  has  sprung  to  the  succor 
and  defence  of  genius,  I  summon  it  to  act  the 
part  of  honor  and  duty  upon  a  wrong  which,  done 
to  a  single  member  of  the  great  confraternity  of 
literature,  is  done  to  all,  and  which  flings  insult 
and  menace  upon  every  immortal  page  that  dares 
transcend  the  wicked  heart  or  the  constricted 
brain.  I  send  this  letter  to  Victor  Hugo  for  its 
passport  through  Europe  ;  I  send  it  to  John 
Stuart  Mill,  to  Newman,  and  Matthew  Arnold, 
for  England ;  I  send  it  to  Emerson  and  Wendell 
Phillips  ;  to  Charles  Sumner  ;  to  every  Senator 
and  Representative  in  Congress  ;  to  all  our  jour- 
nalists ;  to  the  whole  American  people  ;  to  every- 
one who  guards  the  freedom  of  letters  and  the 


THE  CLERK  AND   HIS   FRIENDS        171 

liberty  of  thought  throughout  the  civilized 
world.  God  grant  that  not  in  vain  upon  this 
outrage  do  I  invoke  the  judgment  of  the  mighty 
spirit  of  literature,  and  the  fires  of  every  honest 
heart ! 

"  WILLIAM  DOUGLAS  O'CONNOR." 

O'Connor's  style  is  that  of  the  Celt  who  sees 
red.  Nevertheless,  to  belittle  a  masterpiece  like 
The  Good  Gray  Poet  because  it  is  rhetorical 
is  as  much  beside  the  mark  as  to  criticise  an 
orator  for  being  oratorical.  Yet  the  "civilized 
world  "  received  the  pamphlet  with  something  of 
the  same  indifference  which  the  House  of  Com- 
mons used  to  manifest  toward  the  impassioned 
harangues  of  Edmund  Burke.  It  was  months 
before  O'Connor  could  find  a  publisher.  In  the 
mean  time  he  wrote  fiery  letters  to  many  persons 
whose  influence  he  wished  to  enlist  upon  Whit- 
man's side.  From  their  replies l  a  few  may  well 
be  selected  for  presentation  here,  in  view  of 
their  bearing  upon  the  wider  question  of  Whit- 
man's reception  by  his  countrymen.  George 
William  Curtis,  who  had  a  soul  as  chivalrous  as 
O'Connor's,  as  well  as  a  tact,  delicacy,  and  hu- 
mor which  O'Connor  sometimes  lacked,  wrote 
from  his  summer  home  in  Ashfield  :  — 

1  Kindly  placed  at  my  disposal  by  Mrs.  Calder. 


172  WALT  WHITMAN 

ABHFIELD,  MASS.,  30  Sept.,  1865. 

MY  DEAR  O'CONNOR,  —  Here,  up  among  the 
autumn  hills,  I  got  your  interesting  letter  of 
the  2d,  and  you  may  be  very  sure  that  I  will  do 
all  I  can  to  redress  the  wrong  of  which  you 
speak. 

The  task  you  undertake  is  not  easy,  as  you 
know.  The  public  sympathy  will  be  with 
the  Secretary  for  removing  a  man  who  will 
be  considered  an  obscene  author  and  a  free 
lover.  But  your  hearty  vindication  of  Free  Let- 
ters will  not  be  the  less  welcome  to  all  liberal 
men. 

Personally  I  do  not  know  Whitman,  and  while 
his  "Leaves  of  Grass"  impressed  me  less  than 
it  impressed  many  better  men  than  I,  I  have 
never  heard  anything  of  him  but  what  was 
noble,  nor  believed  anything  of  him  but  what  was 
honorable.  That  a  man  should  be  expelled 
from  office  and  held  up  to  public  contumely,  be- 
cause of  an  honest  book  which  no  candid  mind 
can  truly  regard  as  hurtful  to  public  morality, 
is  an  offence  which  demands  exposure  and  cen- 
sure. .  .  . 

Goodbye.  Let  me  hear  as  soon  as  you  will. 
You  know  how  gladly  I  shall  serve  you,  &  how 

truly  I  am 

Your  friend 

G.  W.  CURTIS. 


THE  CLERK  AND   HIS  FRIENDS        173 

In  another  month  Curtis  had  received  the 
manuscript  of  The  Good  Gray  Poet,  in  O'Con- 
nor's bold  flowing  hand.  He  acknowledged  it  as 
fbllows :  — 

NORTH  SHOBB,  Sunday,  29  Oct.,  1865. 

MY  DEAR  O'CONNOR,  —  Last  evening  came 
your  note  from  Chelsea  &  the  MS.  for  which 
the  printer  (if  he  ever  sees  it ! !)  will  invoke 
benedictions  upon  your  head.  I  read  it  all  be- 
fore I  went  to  bed.  The  rhetoric  is  gorgeous. 
Its  estimate  of  the  bard  of  course  entirely  out- 
runs any  present  appreciation  of  him  by  that 
public  which  reads.  The  one  to  which  he  is  now 
so  dear  —  the  public,  not  the  occasional  private 
like  you  —  is  not  a  reading  body. 

For  my  own  part  I  read  your  lofty  praise 
with  admiration  and  shame  that  I  could  be  so 
blind  to  so  great  a  glory.  I  shall  read  the  Drum- 
Taps  with  double  interest. 

Now  that  I  have  read  what  you  have  written, 
I  do  not  feel  that  it  will  probably  imperil  your 
situation  —  whether  you  care  for  it  or  not.  You 
criticise  Mr.  Harlan  from  a  purely  impersonal 
point,  as  a  fool  may  easily  see. 

For  the  substance  of  the  work,  you  marshal  a 
splendid  array  of  "indecent"  witnesses,  and 
bravely  accuse  all  the  Great  Gods  of  "nastiness." 
But  I  asked  myself,  as  I  read,  two  questions: 


174  WALT  WHITMAN 

First,  is  there  no  natural  reticence  about  these 
sexual  relations  and  organs,  —  and  second,  is  the 
sense  of  various  power  in  the  greatest  authors 
at  all  increased  by  their  use  of  such  allusions 
as  metaphors  or  otherwise  ?  Is  it  a  prudery  or 
an  instinct  which  secretes  the  whole  matter? 

I  cannot  but  doubt  if  any  publisher  would 
like  to  stem  the  torrent  of  censure  which  the 
book  will  probably  draw  upon  him.  But  while  I 
shall  frankly  tell  him  its  scope  I  shall  do  full 
justice  to  the  feeling  which  I  have  for  the  true 
purpose  which  dictates  it  and  the  copious  rich- 
ness with  which  it  is  done.  Neither  you  nor  it 
will  suffer  in  my  mouth. 

I   don't    believe    any  man    deserves    to    be 
spoken  of  as  you  speak  of  your  hero,  but  it  must 
be  a  delight  to  you  to  feel  that  I  am  wrong. 
Goodbye.   I  shall  report  as  soon  as  I  can. 
Always  yours, 
G.  W.  CURTIS. 

W.  D.  O'CONNOR,  ESQ., 

Chelsea,  Mass. 

Finally  Bunce  and  Huntington,  of  New  York, 
issued  the  pamphlet.  Curtis  acknowledged  its 
receipt  in  the  following  note :  — 

NORTH  SHORE,  STATEN  ISLAND, 

12  February,  1866. 

MY  DEAR  O' CONNOR,  —  I   am  ashamed  of 


THE  CLERK   AND   HIS   FRIENDS        175 

myself  that  I  have  not  long  ago  acknowledged 
The  Good  Gray  Poet.  The  truth  is  that  I  have 
been  racing  about  the  country  and  intended  to 
have  expressed  my  opinion  in  the  Weekly.  But 
I  find  that  it  is  not  practicable  to  do  so.  I  am 
sorry,  because  altho  I  do  not  agree  with  your 
opinions  altogether,  I  do  most  heartily  sympa- 
thize with  your  generous  &  eloquent  defence  of 
Free  Letters. 

I  see  that  the  pamphlet  has  excited  attention 
—  not  indeed  as  much  as  I  hoped,  but  you  know 
what  a  lottery  publicity  is.  The  Nation,  The 
Round  Table,  The  Commonwealth,  I  suppose 
you  have  seen,  and  I  should  have  been  very 
glad  to  add  H?s  W.  to  the  number. 

I  heard  it  discussed  among  the  Dii  majores  in 
Boston,  but  they  do  not  believe  in  your  poet. 
Lowell  told  me  that  he  first  remembered  Whit- 
man in  the  old  Democratic  JRcview.  That  was 
new  to  me,  as  I  supposed  the  Leaves  of  Grass 
was  his  maiden  speech. 

Good  bye.  I  should  be  glad  to  know  how  you 
are  satisfied  with  the  reception  of  your  volley, 
and  am  always 

Most  truly  yours, 

G.  W.  CUKTIS. 

W.  D.  O'CONNOR,  Esq., 

Treasury  Department, 

Washington,  D.  C. 


176  WALT  WHITMAN 

Wendell  Phillips,  himself  a  master  of  polemic 
eloquence,  wrote  to  O'Connor  in  June,  1866, 
after  reading  the  pamphlet  a  second  time :  — 

"  I  still  think  it  is  the  most  brilliant  and  vig- 
orous effort  I  know  of  in  controversial  literature. 
...  It  is  one  of  those  essays  struck  out  in  the 
heat  of  a  great  emergency  which  survive  the  oc- 
casion and  take  their  place  in  living  literature. 
.  .  .  You  ought  to  have  been  a  speaker.  Marry 
your  style  to  a  living  voice,  and  we  talkers  will 
all  take  back  seats." 

The  attitude  of  keeusighted  journalists  at  this 
juncture  is  well  shown  in  a  letter  from  the  vig- 
orous editor  of  the  New  York  Times.  O'Con- 
nor had  sent  him  The  Good  Gray  Poet,  and 
prepared  an  article  on  the  forthcoming  new 
edition  of  Leaves  of  Grass. 

THE  TIMES  OFFICE,  New  York,  Oct.  16, 1866. 
MY  DEAR  MR.  O'CONNOR,  —  I  am  a  little  puz- 
zled by  your  proposition  about  Leaves  of  Grass. 
It  is  not  a  new  book  and  has  to  encounter  a  good 
deal  of  prejudice.  I  am  not  blind  to  its  merits, 
though  I  do  not  rate  it  so  highly  as  you  do.  But 
there  are  sundry  nastinesses  in  it  which  will  & 
ought  to  keep  it  oufc  of  libraries  and  parlors :  and 
I  should  not  like  to  praise  the  book  without 
branding  them.  I  know  how  you  defend,  or 
excuse,  them  —  but  I  don't  think  the  defence 


THE  CLERK  AND   HIS  FRIENDS        177 

valid  cor  am  populo*  Shakespeare,  Montaigne  & 
others  might  do  in  their  day,  what  no  man 
can  now,  innocently.  Other  very  gross  acts  are 
natural  and  proper  in  their  place  but  that  place 
is  not  in  public. 

So  much  for  that.  If  you  will  pardon  my  hesi- 
tation I  would  be  very  glad  to  see  your  review 
and  will  print  it  if  I  can.  Don't  make  it  too 
long.  Newspaper  columns  do  not  suffice  to  ex- 
haust such  a  subject.  What  you  said  of  W.  per- 
sonally in  your  pamphlet  was  as  fine  as  anything 
I  ever  read.  I  would  rather  deserve  all  that  than 
be  Emperor. 

Yours  very  truly, 

H.  J.  KAYMOND. 

W.  D.  O'CONNOR,  ESQ., 
Office  Light  House  Board, 
Treasury  Dept.,  Washington. 

Among  the  acknowledgments  of  The  Good 
Gray  Poet  made  by  foreign  men  of  letters,  Mat- 
thew Arnold's  is  very  perfect  of  its  kind. 

ATHENAEUM  CLUB,  Pall  Mall,  S.  W.,  Sept.  16, 1866. 

DEAR  SIR,  —  I  have  been  absent  from  Lon- 
don for  some  months,  and  on  my  return  I  find 
your  note  of  the  4th  of  June  with  the  two  books 
you  have  been  good  enough  to  send  me.  Their 
predecessors,  which  you  mention,  I  do  not  find. 

Mr.  Harlau  is  now,  I  believe,  out  of  office,  but 


178  WALT  WHITMAN 

had  he  still  remained  in  office  I  can  imagine 
nothing  less  likely  to  make  him  reconsider  his 
decision  respecting  your  friend  than  the  interfer- 
ence of  foreign  expostulators  in  the  matter.  I 
have  read  your  statement  with  interest  and  I  do 
not  contest  Mr.  Walt  Whitman's  powers  and 
originality.  I  doubt,  however,  whether  here,  too, 
or  in  France,  or  in  Germany,  a  public  function- 
ary would  not  have  had  to  pay  for  the  pleasure 
of  being  so  outspoken  the  same  penalty  which 
your  friend  has  paid  in  America.  As  to  the  gen- 
eral question  of  Mr.  Walt  Whitman's  poetical 
achievements,  you  will  think  that  it  savours  of 
our  decrepit  old  Europe  when  I  add  that  while 
you  think  it  his  highest  merit  that  he  is  so  unlike 
anyone  else,  to  me  this  seems  to  be  his  demerit ; 
no  one  can  afford  in  literature  to  trade  merely  on 
his  own  bottom  and  to  take  no  account  of  what 
the  other  ages  and  nations  have  acquired :  a  great 
original  literature  America  will  never  get  in  this 
way,  and  her  intellect  must  inevitably  consent  to 
come,  in  a  considerable  measure,  into  the  Euro- 
pean movement.  That  she  may  do  this  and  yet 
be  an  independent  intellectual  power,  not  merely 
as  you  say  an  intellectual  colony  of  Europe,  I 
cannot  doubt ;  and  it  is  on  her  doing  this,  and 
not  on  her  displaying  an  eccentric  and  violent 
originality  that  wise  Americans  should  in  my 
opinion  set  their  desires. 


THE  CLERK  AND  HIS  FRIENDS        179 

With  many  thanks  for  the  good  will  towards 
me  which  you  express,  I  am,  dear  sir, 

Very  faithfully  yours, 
MATTHEW  AKNOLD. 

W.  D.  O'CONNOR,  ESQ., 

Washington,  D.  C., 

United  States. 

To  this  deft  instruction  O'Connor  replied 
(October  14, 1866)  in  a  long  and,  for  him,  tem- 
perate argument,  from  which  a  single  paragraph 
at  least  may  be  quoted :  — 

"  I  can't  agree  that  America  must  come  into  the 
European  movement,  as  you  say,  for,  and  I  am 
sorry  so  many  Englishmen  are  blind  to  it,  Amer- 
ica has  a  movement  of  her  own,  the  source  of  her 
life,  the  secret  of  her  power,  and  I  think,  if  you 
will  pardon  me  for  saying  so,  there  is  far  more 
need  and  probability  of  Europe  coming  into  our 
movement,  than  we  into  hers.  Democracy,  true 
or  false,  is  the  doctrine  or  principle  in  which 
this  country  has  its  start,  and  her  movement,  in 
literature  as  in  everything  else,  must  proceed 
and  be  sustained  from  it,  and  not  from  anything 
exterior  to  it.  As  well  expect  that  our  flora 
and  fauna  should  derive  from  the  influences 
of  another  zone,  as  that  our  letters,  or  any  form 
of  our  life,  should  find  its  inspiration  and  sus- 
tenance from  the  central  forces  of  foreign 
lands." 


180  WALT  WHITMAN 

The  Rev.  Moncure  D.  .Con way,  who  had  so 
promptly  called  upon  Whitman  in  1855,  was 
now  living  in  London.  O'Connor  sent  him  the 
pamphlet,  and  learned  with  delight  that  Mr. 
Conway  had  already  written  an  article  on 
Whitman  —  still  unpublished  —  for  the  Fort- 
nightly Review,  then  under  the  editorship  of 
G.  H.  Lewes.  The  Fortnightly  article  appeared 
on  October  15.  It  was  laudatory,  but  con- 
tained some  journalistic  exaggerations.  O'Con- 
nor wrote  of  it  to  Trowbridge :  "  Con  way's 
article  in  the  Fortnightly  is  a  frightful  mass 
of  misstatement  and  fiction,  redeemed  by  the 
Conwegian  good-nature  and  good  intentions." 
Lord  Strangford  published  at  the  same  time  in 
the  Pall  Mall  Gazette  an  able  though  unsigned 
commendation  of  Whitman's  work. 

The  little  group  of  loyal  fellow-clerks  at 
Washington  took  heart.  The  tireless  O'Connor 
succeeded  in  getting  the  New  York  Times  to 
publish  (on  December  2)  his  review  of  the  new 
edition.1  The  Galaxy  printed  (December  1) 
an  enthusiastic  review  by  John  Burroughs, 
whose  little  book,  Notes  on  Walt  Whitman  as 
Poet  and  Person,2  was  now  in  manuscript, 
awaiting  a  publisher.  Walt  wrote  to  his  mother 
on  December  10 :  "  It  seems  as  if  things 

1  Ready  in  the  late  autumn  of  1866,  but  dated  1867. 

2  New  York,  1867.  Second  edition,  1871. 


THE  CLERK  AND  HIS  FRIENDS        181 

were  going  to  brighten  up  about  Leaves  of 
Grass." 

The  poet  himself  was,  in  fact,  the  least  ex- 
cited of  the  circle.  He  accepted  their  champion- 
ship with  a  sort  of  royal  calm.  He  was  now 
a  third-class  clerk,  drawing  $1600  a  year.  For 
the  first  time  in  his  life  he  was  saving  money. 
His  boarding  place  was  comfortable.  His  offi- 
cial desk  was  at  a  great  south  window  on 
the  third  story  of  the  Treasury  Building,  afford- 
ing a  spacious  view  down  the  shining  Potomac. 
The  Treasury  guards  allowed  him  free  access  to 
his  office  at  night,  and  the  old  reading  habits  of 
his  boyhood  asserted  themselves.  He  writes  to 
his  mother  in  those  homely,  jerky  sentences 
which  he  doubtless  knew  she  preferred  to  any 
other :  — 

"  I  go  evenings  up  to  the  office  frequently  — 
I  have  got  me  a  splendid  astral  lamp,  to  burn 
gas  by  a  tube  &  it  works  to  admiration,  (all  at 
the  expense  of  the  office)  —  &  there  I  can  sit, 
&  read  &c,  as  nice  as  you  please  —  then  I  am 
getting  many  books  for  the  Library  (our  office 
Library)  that  I  have  long  wanted  to  read  at 
my  leisure,  —  and  can  get  any  book  I  want  in 
reason  —  so  you  see  it  is  a  great  privilege  I 
have  here.". 

Outwardly  judged,  here  was  no  poet  of  revolt, 
surely,  nor  even  a  martyr ;  but  a  large,  bland, 


182  WALT  WHITMAN 

comfortable  personage,  near  ing  fifty,  and  skill- 
fully  allowing  the  reunited  nation  to  pay  for 
his  gas  and  his  books.  But  while  his  disciples 
were  aware  of  all  this,  they  believed  no  less 
stoutly  that  Whitman  was  an  incomparable 
genius.  Burroughs  wrote  on  January  4,  1867, 
to  O'Connor,  after  the  latter  had  been  reading 
the  manuscript  of  his  Notes  :  — 

"  He  is,  in  my  opinion,  either  more  &  different 
from  any  other  poet,  or  he  is  a  ridiculous  fail- 
ure. I  am  fully  persuaded  that  he  belongs  to 
an  entirely  new  class  of  geniuses  which  has  no 
type  in  the  past ;  &  that  he  is  to  be  justified 
and  explained  on  entirely  new  grounds.  You 
can  never  make  people  believe  till  the  day  you 
die,  that  Walt  is  like  other  poets,  &  we  have 
got  to  show  new  ground,  new  issues,  new  ends 
in  literature  by  which  to  try  him,  or  we  will  be 
forced  to  admit  that  he  is  a  tremendous 
humbug.  .  .  .  And  more  than  that,  I  do  not 
think  that  either  you  or  I  or  both,  are  the 
guardians  of  Walt's  fame,  or  that  we  can  make 
or  unmake  it." 

While  Burroughs  and  O'Connor  argued,  and 
Whitman  read  by  his  new  astral  lamp  or 
tramped  the  streets  with  Peter  Doyle,  some  of 
the  most  subtle  of  the  younger  English  critics 
were  finding  in  Leaves  of  Grass  a  new  world  of 
poetry.  Frederick  W.  11.  Myers,  then  a  fellow  of 


THE  CLERK   AND   HIS  FRIENDS        183 

Trinity,  read  from  the  book  to  John  Addington 
Symonds,  an  Oxford  man  of  brilliant  mind  and 
delicate  body,  who  listened  with  "thrills  to  the 
very  marrow  of  his  bones."  Edward  Dowden, 
Tyrrell,  and  other  young  Irish  scholars  were 
reading  it  in  Dublin.  William  Bell  Scott  the 
artist,  who  had  received  a  copy  from  Thomas 
Dixon  "the  cork-cutter,"  Raskin's  friend,  intro- 
duced it  to  the  notice  of  Swinburne  and  W.  M. 
Rossetti.  It  will  be  remembered  that  Emerson 
had  sent  a  copy  to  Carlyle,  ten  years  before. 
Thoreau  had  sent  one  to  his  friend  Cholmonde- 
ley,  and  a  few  other  copies  had  found  their  way 
to  England.  But  here  was  a  band  of  clever 
university  men,  scholars  and  poets  of  a  new 
generation,  who  became  convinced  of  Walt  Whit- 
man's claims  to  be  the  representative  poet  of 
democracy. 

It  has  sometimes  been  urged  in  explanation 
of  their  enthusiasm,  that  these  Englishmen  had 
expected  on  a  priori  grounds  that  the  typical 
American  poet  would  wear  a  flannel  shirt  and 
tuck  his  trousers  into  his  boot-tops,  and  that 
therefore,  when  Whitman  appeared  clad  in  that 
fashion,  it  was  natural  to  assume  that  here  was 
the  long  awaited  bard  of  a  big  country.  There 
is  a  pleasing  simplicity  about  this  theory.  Cer- 
tain Americans  resident  in  London  during  the 
seventies  still  remember  their  amazement  and 


184  WALT  WHITMAN 

humiliation  when  a  Kocky  Mountain  poet,  their 
fellow  guest  at  English  dinner  tables,  used  to 
call  for  cigarettes  in  the  middle  of  dinner  and 
put  two  into  his  mouth  at  a  time,  announcing 
proudly  to  his  host :  "  That 's  the  way  we  do  it 
in  the  States!"  Some  English  and  Continental 
admiration  of  Whitman  is  no  doubt  due  to  the 
discovery  in  him  of  a  rudeness  and  indecorum 
which  were  thought  indispensable  to  the  role 
of  a  singer  of  democracy.  But  the  letters  of  the 
more  discriminating  among  Whitman's  new 
readers  are  ample  proof  that  they  went  below 
the  surface  of  boisterous  manner,  and  appre- 
hended something  of  the  deeper  drift  of  Whit- 
man's meaning.  Horace  E.  Scudder,  a  Boston 
critic  of  uncommon  poise  and  sobriety,  had  sent 
Drum-Taps  to  W.  M.  Rossetti  in  1866  with  the 
comment  that  no  one  had  caught  so  perfectly  as 
Whitman  "  the  most  elusive  elements  of  Amer- 
ican civilization."1  In  Rossetti's  ensuing  corre- 
spondence with  O'Connor  and  with  Whitman 
himself,  as  shown  in  the  Rossetti  Papers  and 
elsewhere,  there  is  evidence  of  sound  appreci- 
ation of  Whitman's  prescience  as  to  the  vast 
changes  which  democracy  was  working,  in  Eng- 
land no  less  than  America. 

With  regard  to  certain  aspects  of  Whitman's 
work  Rossetti  dissented  from  the  first,  yet  he 

1  Rossetti  Papers,  London,  1902. 


THE  CLERK  AND   HIS  FRIENDS        185 

threw  himself  vigorously  into  the  task  of  making 
the  American  writer  better  known.  Mr.  Con  way > 
writing  to  O'Connor  on  April  30,  1867,  reports 
a  consultation  of  Swinburne,  W.  M.  Rossetti, 
and  J.  C.  Hotteii  the  publisher,  at  which  he 
was  present,  where  all  agreed  that  a  complete 
republication  of  Leaves  of  Grass,  without  mod- 
ification of  two  or  three  passages,  "  would  bring 
a  legal  prosecution  on  any  publisher."  Mr.  Con- 
way  adds  that  "  an  enthusiastic  admirer  of  Walt, 
John  Addington  Symonds,  is  preparing  a  review 
of  him  for  the  Edinburgh"  Many  letters  deal- 
ing with  the  question  of  what  should  be  omitted 
from  the  proposed  volume  passed  between  Lon- 
don and  Washington  during  the  next  six  months. 
Rossetti  noted  in  his  diary,  September  30, 1867  : 
"  My  principle  of  selection  would  be  to  miss  out 
entirely  any  poem,  though  otherwise  fine  and 
unobjectionable,  which  contains  any  of  his  ex- 
treme crudities  of  expression  in  the  way  of 
indecency ;  I  would  not  expurgate  such  poems, 
but  simply  exclude  them."  *  This  was  what  was 
ultimately  done.  Whitman's  letters,  printed  by 
Rossetti,  show  that  he  was  quite  willing  that 
Rossetti  should  make  whatever  verbal  changes  or 
omissions  might  be  thought  needful,  so  long  as  it 
was  intended  to  print  a  volume  of  Selections  only ; 
but  that  he  would  not  consent  to  an  "expur- 

1  Rossetti  Papers. 


186  WALT  WHITMAN 

gated  edition  "  of  the  complete  Leaves  of  Grass. 
It  should  be  remembered  in  this  connection  that 
in  his  fourth  edition,  which  had  been  printed 
at  his  own  expense  in  Washington  some  months 
before,  he  had  tacitly  omitted  many  lines  that 
had  given  offense.  In  fact,  in  none  of  the  poems 
written  after  1860  was  there  any  ground  for  cen- 
sorship. 

In  the  mean  time  Rossetti  published  (July  6, 
1867)  an  appreciative  article  in  the  London 
Chronicle,  a  short-lived  liberal  Catholic  review. 
O'Connor  was  writing  for  Putnam's  Magazine 
an  extraordinary  story  called  "The  Carpenter," * 
in  which  Christ  appears  in  the  guise  of  a  work- 
ing man  who  has  all  the  outward  and  many  of 
the  inward  traits  of  Whitman.  This  was  the 
first  of  many  attempts  that  have  been  made  to 
express,  through  the  use  of  the  most  sacred  fig- 
ure known  to  humanity,  the  mysterious  potency 
of  Whitman's  personality  over  a  certain  class 
of  minds.  It  is  significant  that  it  should  have 
been  written  by  one  of  Whitman's  associates, 
who  saw  him  in  the  unheroic  and  disillusion- 
ing light  of  daily  contact.  u  The  Carpenter  "  ap- 
peared in  January,  1868,  and  a  month  later 
copies  of  Swinburne's  critical  study  of  William 
Blake  reached  America.  In  one  of  the  closing 

1  Now  reprinted  in  O'Connor's  Three  Tales,  Boston,  Hough- 
ton,  Mifflin  and  Company. 


THE  CLERK  AND   HIS   FRIENDS        187 

passages  of  this  book  Swinburne  pointed  out 
for  the  first  time  the  spiritual  kinship  of  Blake 
and  Walt  Whitman.  Both  writers  possessed,  he 
declared,  "  a  splendor  now  of  stars  and  now  of 
storms  ;  an  expanse  and  exaltation  of  wing  across 
strange  spaces  of  air  and  upon  shoreless  stretches 
of  sea  ;  a  resolute  and  reflective  love  of  liberty. 
.  .  .  Even  their  shortcomings  and  errors  are 
nearly  akin.  Their  poetry  .  .  .  being  oceanic 
...  is  troubled  with  violent  groundswells  and 
sudden  perils  of  ebb  and  reflex,  of  shoal  and 
reef,  perplexing  to  the  swimmer  or  the  sailor ;  it 
partakes  of  the  powers  and  the  faults  of  ele- 
mental and  eternal  things  ;  it  is  at  times  noisy 
and  barren  and  loose,  rootless  and  fruitless  and 
informal."  1 

Swinburne's  book  was  followed  by  Rossetti's 
Selections.2  This  proved  to  be  an  excellently 
chosen  volume,  containing  the  prose  essay  pre- 
faced to  the  1855  edition,  and  one  hundred  and 
three  poems,  arranged  in  groups.  The  editor's 
Prefatory  Notice  was  straightforward.  "  In  re- 
spect of  morals  or  propriety,"  he  "  neither  ad- 
mired nor  approved  the  incriminated  passages," 
yet  he  asserted  his  belief  that  Whitman's  was 
"  incomparably  the  largest  performance  of  our 
period  in  poetry,"  and  that  "his  voice  will  one 

1  A.  C.  Swinburne,  William  Blake,  London,  1868,  p.  300. 

2  Poems  of  Walt  Whitman,  London,  J.  C.  Hotten,  1868. 


188  WALT  WHITMAN 

day  be  potential  or  magisterial  wherever  the 
English  language  is  spoken." 

The  publication  of  Rossetti's  Selections  gained 
for  Whitman  one  singular  and  noble  friendship, 
that  of  Mrs.  Anne  Gilchrist.  Her  husband, 
Alexander  Gilchrist,  a  friend  of  the  Rossettis 
and  the  next-door  neighbor  of  the  Carlyles  on 
Cheyne  Row,  had  been  engaged  at  the  time  of 
his  death,  in  1861,  upon  a  Life  of  Blake.  His 
widow,  who  was  left  with  four  children,  resolved 
to  complete  the  book,  a  task  which  she  accom- 
plished in  1863.  She  was  a  woman  of  personal 
charm,  of  marked  power  of  character,  and  had  a 
wide  acquaintance  among  artistic  and  literary 
circles.  Madox  Brown,  one  of  her  Pre-Rapha- 
elite friends,  happened  to  lend  her  Rossetti's 
volume  in  June,  1869.  Fascinated  by  what  she 
found  there,  she  begged  Rossetti  for  a  complete 
copy  of  Leaves  of  Grass.  He  complied,  and  her 
letters  about  the  book  were  as  he  notes  in  his 
Diary  (13  July,  1869)  "  incredibly  enthusiastic." 
On  that  day,  after  some  hesitation,  he  copied 
and  forwarded  to  O'Connor  certain  passages 
from  the  letters,  without  mentioning  the  lady's 
name.  Two  of  the  passages  should  be  reprinted 
here: 

23  June.  "  I  shall  quite  fearlessly  accept  your 
kind  offer  of  the  loan  of  a  complete  edition  — 
certain  that  that  great  and  divinely  beautiful 


THE  CLERK  AND   HIS  FRIENDS        189 

nature  has  not,  could  not,  infuse  any  poison  into 
the  wine  he  has  poured  out  for  us.  And,  as  for 
what  you  specially  allude  to,  who  so  well  able  to 
bear  it  —  I  will  say,  to  judge  wisely  of  it  —  as 
one  who,  having  been  a  happy  wife  &  mother, 
has  learned  to  accept  with  tenderness,  to  feel  a 
sacredness  in  all  the  facts  of  nature  ?  Perhaps 
Walt  Whitman  has  forgotten  —  or,  thro'  some 
theory  in  his  head,  has  overridden  —  the  truth 
that  our  instincts  are  beautiful  facts  of  nature, 
as  well  as  our  bodies,  &  that  we  have  a  strong 
instinct  of  silence  about  some  things." 

11  July.  "  I  think  it  was  very  manly  and  kind 
of  you  to  put  the  whole  of  Walt  Whitman's  poems 
into  my  hands ;  &  that  I  have  no  other  friend 
who  w'd  have  judged  them  and  me  so  wisely  and 
generously.  ...  In  regard  to  those  poems  which 
raised  so  loud  an  outcry,  I  will  take  courage  to 
say  frankly  that  I  find  them  also  beautiful,  & 
that  I  think  even  you  have  misapprehended  them. 
Perhaps  indeed  they  were  chiefly  written  for 
wives.  I  rejoice  to  have  read  these  poems  ;  &  if 
I  or  any  true  woman  feel  that,  certainly  men  may 
hold  their  peace  about  them.  You  will  under- 
stand that  I  still  think  that  instinct  of  silence  1 
spoke  of  a  right  and  beautiful  thing ;  &  that  it 
is  only  lovers  &  poets  (perhaps  only  lovers  & 
this  poet)  who  may  say  what  they  will  —  the 
lover  to  his  own,  the  poet  to  all,  because  all  are 


190  WALT  WHITMAN 

in  a  sense  his  own.  Shame  is  like  a  very  flexible 
veil  that  takes  faithfully  the  shape  of  what  it 
covers  —  lovely  when  it  hides  a  lovely  thing, 
ugly  when  it  hides  an  ugly  one.  There  is  not  any 
fear  that  the  freedom  of  such  impassioned  words 
will  destroy  the  sweet  shame,  the  happy  silence, 
that  enfold  &  brood  over  the  secrets  of  love  in  a 
woman's  heart." 

O'Connor  read  these  letters  with  jubilation. 
The  unknown  Englishwoman  had  written  what 
no  one  but  a  woman  could  have  written,  and  what 
no  other  woman  had  hitherto  had  the  courage  to 
say.  Whitman  himself  was  deeply  moved.  Ros- 
setti  felt  that  certain  portions  of  the  letters  should 
be  printed  in  America,  and  they  finally  appeared, 
after  some  revision,  under  the  title  "  A  Woman's 
Estimate  of  Walt  Whitman,"  in  the  Boston  Rad- 
ical for  May,  1870.1  A  prefatory  note  by  Ros- 
setti  speaks  of  the  letters  as  "  about  the  fullest, 
farthest-reaching  and  most  eloquent  appreciation 
of  Whitman  yet  put  into  writing."  Ultimately 
the  poet  learned  the  authorship  of  the  letters,  and 
corresponded  with  Mrs.  Gilchrist.  For  three 
years,  1876-79,  she  resided  in  America,  much 
of  the  time  near  him,  and  their  intimate  friend- 

1  They  have  since  been  reprinted  in  Herbert  Gilchrist's  Life 
of  Anne  Gilchrist,  and  in  In  Be  Walt  Whitman.  I  have  quoted 
from  O'Connor's  own  copy  of  the  letters,  which  differs  in  some 
respects  from  the  printed  versions. 


THE  CLERK  AND  HIS  FRIENDS        191 

ship  continued  until  her  death,  at  the  age  of 
fifty-four,  in  1885.  She  was  his  *'  noblest  woman 
friend."  Her  letters  to  him  have  never  been 
published. 

While  the  new  and  old  friends  of  Whitman 
were  thus  actively  engaged  in  his  behalf,  the 
poet  himself  remained,  in  the  language  of  Mar- 
jorie  Fleming,  "  more  than  usual  calm."  Ter- 
ence Mulvaney,  playing  the  part  of  the  god 
Krishna  in  the  palanquin,  was  not  more  imper- 
turbable. Always  a  notable  figure  upon  the 
street,  and  naively  enjoying  that  fact,  he  now 
found  himself  something  of  a  celebrity.  Young 
women  rose  in  the  horse-cars  to  give  him  a  seat, 
though  he  was  not  yet  fifty.  By  1868  his  photo- 
graphs were  on  public  sale  in  Washington,  and 
he  was  autographing  them  for  purchasers.  His 
somewhat  florid  personality  repelled  a  few  sen- 
sitive observers,  as  he  was  well  aware.  "  Some 
people  don't  like  me,"  he  said  to  Mrs.  O'Connor. 
But  he  won  a  curious,  good-natured,  half  hu- 
morous notice  from  the  majority  of  strollers  on 
the  Washington  avenues.  They  hailed  him  as 
"  Walt,"  and  were  vaguely  aware  that  he  was  a 
"  poet."  Yet  beneath  the  surface  of  these  pomps 
and  vanities,  the  real  man  abode  solitary,  brood- 
ing, hungering  for  affection.  A  few  days  before 
Rossetti  wrote  of  him  as  "  so  aboriginal  and 
transcendent  a  genius,"  Whitman  himself  was 


192  WALT  WHITMAN 

writing  to  his  mother :  "  I  pass  the  time  very 
quietly  —  some  evenings  I  spend  in  my  attic  — 
I  have  laid  in  wood  &  can  have  a  fire  when  I 
want  it  —  I  wish  you  was  here."  He  is  work- 
ing at  leisure,  he  tells  her,  on  his  "  little  book 
in  prose,"  afterwards  published  as  Democratic 
Vistas.  An  occasional  old  acquaintance  calls 
upon  him,  as  for  instance  W.  J.  Stillman,  the 
artist  and  war  correspondent,  who  writes  to 
Rossetti  that  Whitman  is  "  more  well-to-do 
than  when  I  saw  him  before,"  and  "  gray  as  a 
badger."  His  annual  leave  of  absence  was  usu- 
ally spent  with  his  mother  in  Brooklyn,  with 
occasional  brief  excursions.  In  the  fall  of  1868, 
for  example,  he  visited  friends  at  Providence, 
and  writes  back  to  Eldridge  :  "  I  am  profoundly 
impressed  with  Providence,  not  only  for  its 
charming  locality  and  features,  but  for  its  proof 
&  expression  of  fine  relations,  as  a  city,  to  aver- 
age human  comfort,  life,  &  family  &  individual 
independence  and  thrift .  After  all,  New  Eng- 
land forever!  (with  perhaps  just  one  or  two 
little  reservations.)"1 

When  in  Brooklyn  upon  these  furloughs  he 
wrote  regularly  to  Peter  Doyle.  Sometimes  he 
sent  Doyle  a  "  good  long  "  kiss,  "  on  the  paper 
here,"  like  an  affectionate  child.  Often  he  com- 

1  From  one  of  the  letters  to  Eldridge  which  Mr.  John  Bur- 
roughs has  placed  at  ray  disposal. 


THE  CLERK  AND  HIS  FRIENDS        193 

forted  him,  when  ill  or  out  of  work,  with  vig- 
orous admonitions.  "  As  long  as  the  Almighty 
vouchsafes  you  health,  strength,  and  a  clear  con- 
science, let  other  things  do  their  worst, —  and  let 
Riker l  go  to  hell."  These  letters,  as  was  natural, 
touched  but  rarely  upon  literary  matters.  Occa- 
sionally there  were  references  to  current  poli- 
tics. On  September  15,  1870,  he  wrote  of  the 
Franco-Prussian  war  and  of  the  Italian  struggle : 
"  As  the  case  stands,  I  find  myself  now  far  more 
for  the  French  than  I  ever  was  for  the  Prus- 
sians ....  Then  I  propose  to  take  my  first 
drink  with  you  when  I  return,  in  celebration  of 
the  pegging  out  of  the  Pope  and  all  his  gang  of 
Cardinals  and  priests  —  and  entry  of  Victor 
Emanuel  into  Rome,  and  making  it  the  capital 
of  the  great  independent  Italian  nation."  As 
Doyle  was  a  Catholic,  it  is  possible  that  this 
comprehensive  toast  was  never  drunk. 

The  following  summer  was  made  memorable 
to  Whitman  by  a  letter  from  Tennyson,  the  first 
of  a  correspondence  that  continued,  at  intervals, 
throughout  their  lives.  In  thanking  Whitman 
for  a  gift  of  some  of  his  books,  Tennyson  wrote 
(July  12,  1871):  "I  had  previously  met  with 
several  of  your  works  and  read  them  with  in- 
terest and  had  made  up  my  mind  that  you  had 
a  large  and  lovable  nature.  ...  I  trust  that  if 

1  Doyle's  chief. 


194  WALT  WHITMAN 

you  visit  England  you  will  grant  me  the  pleasure 
of  receiving  and  entertaining  you  under  my  own 
roof."  *  Swinburne's  Songs  before  Sunrise,  ap- 
pearing in  the  same  year,  contained  the  fervent 
poem  "  To  Walt  Whitman  in  America."  For  the 
opening  of  the  annual  exhibition  of  the  Amer- 
ican Institute  in  New  York  on  September  7 
Whitman  wrote  his  Song  of  the  Exposition? 
containing  the  wonderfully  effective  description 
of  the  passing  of  the  feudal  world : 

"  Blazon'd  with  Shakespere's  purple  page, 
And  dirged  by  Tennyson's  sweet  sad  rhyme." 

Whitman's  literary  activity  during  this  year 
was  notable.  He  issued,  still  at  his  own  expense, 
a  fifth  edition  of  Leaves  of  Grass.  The  general 
arrangement  of  the  poems,  as  grouped  in  the 
1867  edition,  was  retained,  with  but  a  few 
changes.  A  group  of  twenty-three  new  poems, 
with  some  others  that  had  been  printed  previ- 
ously, was  also  issued  in  this  year  in  pamphlet 
form,  under  the  title  Passage  to  India,  and  in 
some  copies  of  the  1871  edition  of  Leaves  of 
Grass  this  pamphlet  is  included.  Its  title- 
poem,  "  Passage  to  India,"  is  typical  of  the 
mystical,  far-ranging  reveries  with  which  Whit- 
man's later  poetry  is  increasingly  filled.  The 

1  T.  Donaldson's  Walt  Whitman,  the  Man,  p.  224. 

2  Roberta  Brothers  of  Boston  published  this  poem  in  pam- 
phlet form,  1871,  under  the  title  :  After  All,  Not  to  Create  Only. 


THE  CLERK  AND  HIS  FRIENDS        195 

completion  of  the  Suez  Canal  and  of  the  Pacific 
Eailroad,  making  tangible  the  old  dreams  of  a 
passage  to  the  Orient,  are  used  as  symbols  not 
only  of  the  growing  unity  of  the  world,  but  of 
the  voyages  of  the  soul  in  search  of  God. 
Speaking  of  "  Passage  to  India "  toward  the 
close  of  his  life,  he  said :  "  There 's  more  of  me, 
the  essential,  ultimate  me,  in  that  than  in  any 
of  the  poems.  .  .  The  burden  of  it  is  evolution — 
the  one  thing  escaping  the  other — the  unfolding 
of  cosmic  purposes." 

Dated  in  1871,  likewise,  although  completed 
in  1870,  was  the  prose  essay,  Democratic  Vistas. 
This  treatise,  composed  at  intervals  during 
several  years,  was  a  reexamination  of  the  theme 
of  the  famous  preface  of  1855,  namely  the 
function  of  literature  in  democratic  America. 
Whitman's  mind  was  not  fashioned  for  sus- 
tained, close  reasoning  in  prose.  But  here  was  a 
subject  upon  which  he  had  brooded  long  and 
deeply;  and  though  the  coils  of  his  thought 
return  again  and  again  upon  themselves, 
making  his  essay  difficult  to  those  who  read 
it  for  the  first  time,  it  remains,  in  spite  of  its 
defects  in  formal  structure,  one  of  the  most 
suggestive  and  significant  contributions  to  Amer- 
ican literature.  Beginning  with  a  confession 
of  the  appalling  dangers  of  universal  suffrage, 
he  asserts  that  the  real  problems  of  humanity 


196  WALT   WHITMAN 

are  not  political,  merely,  but  social  and  reli- 
gious. It  is  these  questions  that  must  be  con- 
fronted by  literature.  While  democracy  has 
brought  about  a  superficial  popular  intellect- 
uality, it  has  failed,  thus  far,  in  ministering  to 
the  deeper  wants  of  the  soul.  But  a  great 
religious  civilization  is  the  only  justification  of 
a  great  material  one.  Literature  has  never  ade- 
quately recognized  the  people,  in  their  truest 
self.  It  must  do  so.  It  must  teach  both  individ- 
ualism and  fraternalism,  and  both  of  these  doc- 
trines must  be  vitalized  by  religion.  The  great 
literatures,  artists  and  teachers  of  the  past  pre- 
serve, indeed,  all  the  best  experience  of  human- 
ity hitherto. 

Whitman  sketches  these  figures  of  the  past 
in  firm  pictorial  prose :  "  For  us  those  bea- 
cons burn  through  all  the  nights.  Unknown 
Egyptians,  graving  hieroglyphs  ;  Hindus,  with 
hymn  and  apothegm  and  endless  epic  ;  Hebrew 
prophet,  with  spirituality,  as  in  flashes  of 
lightning,  conscience  like  red-hot  iron,  plaintive 
songs  and  screams  of  vengeance  for  tyrannies 
and  enslavement ;  Christ,  with  bent  head, 
brooding  love  and  peace,  like  a  dove  ;  Greek, 
creating  eternal  shapes  of  physical  and  esthetic 
proportion ;  Roman,  lord  of  satire,  the  sword, 
and  the  codex ;  — of  the  figures,  some  far  off 
and  veil'd,  others  nearer  and  visible;  Dante, 


THE  CLERK  AND  HIS  FRIENDS        197 

stalking  with  lean  form,  nothing  but  fibre,  not 
a  grain  of  superfluous  flesh ;  Angelo  and  the 
great  painters,  architects,  musicians ;  rich  Shake- 
spere,  luxuriant  as  the  sun,  artist  and  singer  of 
feudalism  in  its  sunset,  with  all  the  gorgeous 
colors,  owner  thereof  and  using  them  at  will ; 
and  so  to  such  as  German  Kant  and  Hegel, 
where  they,  though  near  us,  leaping  over  the 
ages,  sit  again,  impassive,  imperturbable,  like 
the  Egyptian  gods."  Nevertheless,  to  supplement 
all  these,  America,  too,  needs  her  poets  and 
seers,  to  interpret,  consistently  with  modern 
science,  the  profounder  meanings  of  the  present 
day.  Such,  in  barest  outline,  is  the  argument 
of  Democratic  Vistas. 

New  evidences  of  foreign  recognition  now  came 
thick  and  fast.  Edward  Dowden  published  in 
the  Westminster  Review  for  July,  1871,  a 
notable  article  on  Whitman  under  the  title 
"  The  Poetry  of  Democracy."  He  sent  it  to 
Washington,  with  a  friendly  letter  which  led  the 
way  to  a  frequent  and  intimate  correspondence. 
Some  of  the  foremost  critics  upon  the  Continent 
perceived  that  a  new  force  had  arisen  in  modern 
literature.  Ferdinand  Freiligrath,  in  an  enthu- 
siastic article,  accompanied  by  translations  from 
Leaves  of  Grass,  published  in  the  Augsburg 
Allgemeine  Zeitung  May  10,  1868,  had  already 
hailed  Whitman's  verse  as  the  poetry  of  the 


198  WALT  WHITMAN 

future.1  He  wrote  glowing  letters  both  to  Whit- 
man and  to  O'Connor.  Rudolph  Schmidt,  the 
Scandinavian  critic,  translated  Democratic  Vis* 
tas  into  Danish,  and  wrote  upon  Whitman  in 
Febuary,  1872,  for  a  Copenhagen  journal.  In  a 
letter  addressed  to  Whitman  in  April,  Schmidt 
quotes  Bjornson  as  saying,  "Walt  Whitman 
makes  me  a  joy  as  no  new  man  in  many  years, 
and  in  one  respect  the  greatest  I  ever  had." 
On  June  1, 1872,  Th.  Bentzon  (Madame  Blanc) 
published  an  article  on  the  new  American  poet 
in  the  Revue  des  Deux  Mondes.  It  seemed  as 
if  the  tide  had  really  turned  at  last.  Something 
of  the  spirit  of  this  happy  year  appears  in 
Whitman's  first  letter  to  Edward  Dowden,  who 
kindly  allows  me  to  reprint  it. 

WASHINGTON,  Jan.  18,  1872. 

DEAR  MR.  DOWDEN,  — 

I  must  no  longer  delay  writing,  &  to  acknow- 
ledge your  letters  of  Sept  5  and  Oct  15  last.  I 
had  previously  (Aug  22)  written  you  very  briefly 
in  response  to  your  friendly  letter  of  July  23d, 
the  first  you  wrote  me,  accompanying  copy  of  the 
Review.3  All  —  letters  &  Review  —  have  been 

1  "  Stehen  wir  vor  einer  Zukunf tspoesie  wie  uns  schon  seit 
Jahren  eine  Zukunf  tsrausik  vorkiindigt  \vird  ?   Und  ist  Walt 
Whitman  mehr  als  Richard  Wagner  ?  " 

2  With  Walt  Whitman  in  Camden,  p.  274. 
8  The  Westminster  Review  for  July,  1871. 


THE   CLERK  AND   HIS  FRIENDS        199 

read  &  re-read.  I  am  sure  I  appreciate  you  in 
them.  May  I  say  you  do  not  seem  to  stand  afar 
off,  but  very  near  to  me.  What  John  Burroughs 
brings  adds  confirmation.  I  was  "deeply  inter- 
ested in  the  accounts  given  in  the  letters  of  your 
friends.  I  do  not  hesitate  to  call  them  mine  too. 
.  .  .  Affectionate  remembrance  to  all  of  them. 
You  especially,  and  Mrs.  Dowden,  &  indeed  all 
of  you,  already,  I  say,  stand  near  to  me.  I  wish 
each  to  be  told  my  remembrance  (or  to  see  this 
letter  if  convenient). 

I  like  well  the  positions  &  ideas  in  your  West- 
minster article  —  and  radiating  from  the  central 
point  of  assumption  of  my  pieces  being,  or  com- 
mencing "  the  poetry  of  Democracy."  It  presents 
all  the  considerations  which  such  a  critical  text 
&  starting  point  require,  in  a  full,  eloquent,  & 
convincing  manner.  I  entirely  accept  it,  all  & 
several  &  am  not  unaware  that  it  probably 
afforded,  if  not  the  only,  at  least  the  most 
likely  gate,  by  which  you  as  an  earnest  friend 
of  my  book,  &  believing  critic  of  it,  would 
gain  entrance  to  a  leading  review.  —  Besides, 
I  think  the  main  theme  you  exploit  is  really 
of  the  first  importance  —  and  all  the  rest  can 
be  broached  &  led  to,  through  it,  as  well  as  any 
other  way. 

I  would  say  that  (as  you  of  course  see)  the 
spine  or  verterber  [sic]  principle  of  my  book  is 


200  WALT  WHITMAN 

a  model  or  ideal  (for  the  service  of  the  New 
World,  &  to  be  gradually  absorbed  in  it)  of 
d  complete  healthy,  heroic,  practical  modern 
Man  —  emotional,  moral,  spiritual,  patriotic  — 
a  grander  better  son,  brother,  husband,  father, 
friend,  citizen  than  any  yet  —  formed  &  shaped 
in  consonance  with  modern  science,  with  Amer- 
ican Democracy,  &  with  the  requirements  of  cur- 
rent industrial  &  professional  life  —  model  of  a 
Woman  also,  equally  modern  &  heroic  —  a  bet- 
ter daughter,  wife,  mother,  citizen  also,  than 
any  yet.  I  seek  to  typify  a  living  Human  Per- 
sonality, immensely  animal,  with  immense  pas- 
sions, immense  amativeness,  immense  adhesive- 
ness —  in  the  woman  immense  maternity  —  & 
then,  in  both,  immenser  far  a  moral  conscience, 
&  in  always  realizing  the  direct  &  indirect  con- 
trol of  the  divine  laws  through  all  and  over  all 
forever. 

In  "Democratic  Vistas"  I  seek  to  make  pa- 
tent the  appalling  vacuum,  in  our  times  &  here, 
of  any  school  of  great  imaginative  Literature  & 
Art,  fit  for  a  Republican,  Religious,  &  Healthy 
people  —  and  to  suggest  and  prophesy  such  a 
Literature  as  the  only  vital  means  of  sustaining 
&  perpetuating  such  a  people.  I  would  project 
at  least  the  rough  sketch  of  such  a  school  of 
Literatures  —  an  entirely  new  breed  of  authors, 
poets,  American,  comprehensive,  Hegelian,  Demo- 


THE  CLERK  AND  HIS  FRIENDS        201 

cratic,  religious  —  &  with  an  infinitely  larger 
scope  &  method  than  any  yet  [word  omitted] 

There  is  one  point  touched  by  you  in  the  West- 
minster criticism  that  if  occasion  again  arises, 
might  be  dwelt  on  more  fully  —  that  is  the  atti- 
tude of  sneering  denial  which  magazines,  editors, 
publishers,  "  critics  "  &c  in  the  U.  S.  hold  toward 
"  Leaves  of  Grass."  As  to  "  Democratic  Vistas  " 
it  remains  entirely  unread,  uncalled  for  here  in 
America.  If  you  write  again  for  publication 
about  my  books,  or  have  opportunity  to  influence 
any  forthcoming  article  on  them,  I  think  it  would 
be  a  proper  &  even  essential  part  of  such  article 
to  include  the  fact  that  the  books  are  hardly 
recognized  at  all  by  the  orthodox  literary  &  con- 
vential  {sic]  authorities  of  the  U.  S.  —  that  the 
opposition  is  bitter,  &  in  a  large  majority,  &  that 
the  author  was  actually  turned  out  of  a  small 
government  employment  &  deprived  of  his  means 
of  support  by  a  Head  of  Department  at  Wash- 
ington solely  on  account  of  having  written  his 
poems. 

True  I  take  the  whole  matter  coolly.  I  know 
my  book  has  been  composed  in  a  cheerful  &  con- 
tented spirit  —  &  that  the  same  still  substantially 
remains  with  me  (And  I  want  my  friends,  in- 
deed, when  writing  for  publication  about  my 
poetry,  to  present  its  gay-heartedness  as  one  of 
its  chief  qualities.) 


202  WALT  WHITMAN 

I  am  in  excellent  health,  &  again  &  still  work 
as  clerk  here  in  Washington. 

I  saw  John  Burroughs  very  lately.  He  is  well. 
He  showed  me  a  letter  he  had  just  rec'd  from 
you. 

I  wish  more  &  more  (and  especially  now  that 
I  realize  I  know  you,  &  we  should  be  no  stran- 
gers) to  journey  over  sea,  &  visit  England  &  your 
country. 

Tennyson  has  written  to  me  twice  —  &  very 
cordial  &  hearty  letters.  He  invites  me  to  be- 
come his  guest. 

I  have  rec'd  a  letter  from  Joaquin  Miller.  He 
was  at  last  accounts  in  Oregon,  recuperating, 
studying,  enjoying  grand  &  fresh  Nature,  & 
writing  something  new. 

Emerson  has  just  been  this  way  (Baltimore  & 
Washington)  lecturing.  He  maintains  the  same 
attitude  — draws  on  the  same  themes  — as  twenty- 
five  years  ago.  It  all  seems  to  me  quite  attenu- 
ated (t\\Q  first  drawing  of  a  good  pot  of  tea,  you 
know,  and  Emerson's  was  the  heavenly  herb  it- 
self —  but  what  must  one  say  to  a  second,  and 
even  third  or  fourth  infusion  ?)  I  send  you  a 
newspaper  report  of  his  lecture  here  a  night  or 
two  ago.  It  is  a  fair  sample. 

And  now  my  dear  friend,  I  must  close.  I  have 
long  wished  to  write  you  a  letter  to  show,  if  no- 
thing more,  that  I  heartily  realize  your  kindness 


THE  CLERK  AND   HIS   FRIENDS        203 

&  sympathy,  &  would  draw  the  communion  closer 
between  us.  I  shall  probably  send  you  anything 
I  publish,  and  anything  about  my  affairs  or  self 
that  might  interest  you.  You  too  must  write 
freely  to  me  —  &  I  hope  frequently 
-Direct  WALT  WHITMAN 

Solicitor's  Office  Treasury 
Washington  D.  C. 

U.  S.  America. 

In  June,  1872,  Whitman  journeyed  to  Hano- 
ver, New  Hampshire,  to  deliver  the  Commence- 
ment Poem  at  Dartmouth  College.  The  story 
of  his  invitation,  now  told  for  the  first  time,  is 
curious.  I  am  indebted  for  it  to  Professor 
Charles  F.  Richardson  of  Dartmouth,  who  ascer- 
tained the  facts  from  the  surviving  ringleaders  of 
what  was  originally  intended  as  a  joke  upon  the 
Faculty.  He  writes  as  follows :  — 

"  It  appears  that  his  selection  came,  at  least  in 
some  degree,  because  of  a  class  feud  and  the  desire 
on  the  part  of  certain  members  of  the  class  to 
annoy  the  faculty  by  the  appearance  of  a  bard 
objectionable  to  some.  The  '  United  Literary  So- 
cieties '  (United  Fraternity  and  Social  Friends) 
were  then  in  their  decadence,  and  the  choice 
of  orators  and  poets  fell  to  Senior  classes,  the 
members  of  which  were  assigned  to  this  or 
that  society  alphabetically »  Often  the  Seniors  did 


204  WALT  WHITMAN 

not  know  the  society  to  which  they  belonged, 
until  there  came  up  some  matter  of  electing 
undergraduate  librarians  or  Commencement- 
week  celebrities  to  give  addresses.  In  1872  there 
was  in  the  Senior  class  a  semi-jocose  organiz- 
ation called  4  Captain  Cotton's  Cadets  '  —  not 
strictly  a  wild  set,  but  not  precisely  the  leaders 
of  evangelical  activities  in  the  college.  These 
4  Cadets  '  ran  the  Senior  elections  of  that  year, 
and  incidentally  got  Whitman  to  come.  And 
yet,  as  in  Emerson's  case  in  1838,  by  luck  or 
malice  the  then  conservative  college  gave  an  early 
hearing  to  an  *  advanced  '  man. 

"  Whitman  came  in  his  usual  familiar  garb. 
His  delivery  of  his  poem  is  said  by  those  who 
remember  it  to  have  been  monotonous  and  with- 
out animation,  and  his  voice  failed  to  fill  the 
back  part  of  the  church.  When  he  stepped  back 
to  his  seat  there  was  some  doubt  whether  he  had 
finished,  so  that  the  audience  was  relieved  when 
the  chairman  rose  and  shook  hands  with  him. 
The  poem  itself  was  received  without  interest 
and  without  aversion.  In  the  evening  Whitman, 
who  impressed  his  beholders  as  much  older  than 
fifty-three,  attended  the  '  Commencement  Con- 
cert,' and  when  others  applauded  the  singers 
expressed  his  own  approval  by  waving  his  arm 
and  shouting  '  bravo.'  If  the  students'  aim  had 
been  to  plague  the  timid  faculty,  then  composed 


THE   CLERK  AND   HIS  FRIENDS        205 

of  strictly  '  orthodox  '  Congregationalists,  they 
were  unsuccessful,  for  the  good  gray  poet  was 
entertained  at  the  house  of  the  gentle  wife  of 
Dr.  S.  P.  Leeds,  the  college  pastor,  who  was 
then  in  Europe.  On  his  departure  he  gave 
Mrs.  Leeds  (who  did  not  find  him  trouble- 
soraely  peculiar  in  any  way)  a  copy  of  '  As  a 
Strong  Bird  on  Pinions  Free,' — and  so  Dart- 
mouth gave  its  early  welcome  to  the  American 
Homer." 

To  make  this  tale  of  the  irony  of  literary  fame 
complete,  I  venture  to  quote  from  an  unpub- 
lished manuscript  article  by  "  the  American 
Homer  "  himself,  commenting  upon  the  favorable 
attention  excited  by  his  poem.1 

1  I  am  indebted  for  the  use  of  this  manuscript  to  John  Boyd 
Thacher,  Esq.,  of  Albany.  Whitman's  poem  was  delivered  on 
June  26.  At  the  head  of  the  MS.  is  written  in  blue  pencil,  in 
Whitman's  hand  :  "  Use  this  if  convenient  either  Friday,  June 
28th  or  Saturday  June  29th — (lead,  as  editorial,  and  put  on 
3rd  or  4th  column  of  2d  page)  follow  on  copy  and  read  proof 
carefully  by  copy."  The  MS.  is  written  on  the  back  of  sheets 
of  Department  of  Justice  stationery.  As  the  Dartmouth  poem 
was  already  in  type  at  the  time  of  its  delivery,  it  is  probable 
that  Whitman  wrote  the  above  review  before  leaving  for 
Hanover.  He  wrote  to  Doyle  from  Hanover  on  June  27  :  "  Pete, 
did  my  poem  appear  in  the  Washington  papers  —  I  suppose 
Thursday  or  Friday  —  Chronicle  or  Patriot  ?  If  so  send  me  one 
—  (or  one  of  each)."  — Nothing  seems  to  have  appeared,  how- 
ever, in  the  Chronicle  or  Patriot. 


206  WALT  WHITMAN 

"WALT  WHITMAN 

"The  late  Dartmouth  College  utterance  of  the 
above-named  celebrity  is  again  arousing  atten- 
tion to  his  theory  of  the  poet's  art,  and  its  ex- 
emplification in  his  writings.  An  intellectual 
career,  steadily  pressing  its  way  amid  strong 
impediments,  through  the  past  sixteen  or  seven- 
teen years,  and  evidencing  itself  during  that  time 
in  the  good-sized  volume  of  poems,  *  Leaves  of 
Grass  J  and  the  small  prose  book,  '  Democratic 
Vistas^  shows  no  sign  of  flagging  energy  in  its 
late  effusions,  the  American  Institute  poem,  the 
cheering  apostrophe  to  France,  or  in  this  College 
Commencement  piece,  '  As  a  strong  Bird,  on 
Pinions  free,'  which,  with  some  others,  forms 
the  first  installment  of  a  new  volume  just  pub- 
lished. In  the  preface  to  it,  the  author  says  that 
as  he  intended  his  '  Leaves '  to  be  the  songs  of 
a  great  composite  Democratic  individual  he  has 
in  mind  to  chant,  in  the  new  volume,  of  which 
he  gives  the  first  installment,  a  great  composite 
Democratic  nationality. 

"  Walt  Whitman's  form  of  composition  is  not 
attractive  at  first  sight  to  accustomed  readers  of 
verse.  He  discharges  himself  quite  altogether 
from  the  old  laws  of  '  poetry,'  considering  them 
and  their  results  unfit  for  present  needs,  and  espe- 
cially unfit  for  the  United  States,  and  claims  to  in. 


THE  CLERK   AND  HIS   FRIENDS        207 

augurate  an  original  modern  style,  to  be  followed 
&  expanded  by  future  writers.  His  theory  is 
that  our  times  exhibit  the  advent  of  two  espe- 
cially new  creative  worlds,  or  influences,  giving  a 
radically  changed  form  to  Civilization,  namely, 
the  world  of  science  for  one,  and  the  world  of 
democratic  republicanism  for  another,  and  that 
a  third  influence,  a  new  poetic  world  of  charac- 
ter and  form,  adjusted  to  the  new  spirit  and 
facts  and  consistent  with  democracy  and  science,  is 
indispensable.  He  says  the  United  States  must 
found  their  own  imaginative  literature  &>  po- 
etry, &  that  nothing  merely  copied  from  & 
following  out  the  feudal  world  will  do.  His 
aim  is  therefore  a  profound  one  &  essentially 
revolutionary.  He  dismisses  without  ceremony 
all  the  orthodox  accoutrements,  tropes,  verbal 
haberdashery,  'feet,'  and  the  entire  stock  in 
trade  of  rhyme-talking  heroes  and  heroines  and 
all  the  love-sick  plots  of  customary  poetry,  and 
constructs  his  verse  in  a  loose  and  free  metre  of 
his  own,  of  an  irregular  length  of  lines,  appar- 
ently lawless  at  first  perusal,  although  on  closer 
examination  a  certain  regularity  appears,  like 
the  recurrence  of  lesser  and  larger  waves  on  the 
sea-shore,  rolling  in  without  intermission,  and 
fitfully  rising  and  falling. 

"In  this   free  metre,  and  in  verses — when 
you  get  the  hang  of  them  —  singularly  exhilarat- 


208  WALT  WHITMAN 

ing,  and  that  affect  one  like  an  atmosphere 
unusually  charged  with  oxygen,  he,  by  a  perpet- 
ual series  of  what  might  be  called  ejaculations, 
manages  to  express  himself  on  about  every  theme 
interesting  to  humanity,  or  known  to  the  body, 
passions,  experiences,  emotions  of  man  or 
woman,  or  sought  by  the  intellect  and  soul,  with 
illustrations  drawn  largely  from  our  own  times 
and  country,  &  somewhat  from  every  age  and 
country. 

"  Undoubtedly  with  his  new  volume,  including 
the  College  poem,  '  As  a  Strong  Bird,'  the  re- 
putation of  this  author,  though  still  disputed,  is 
to  mount  beyond  anything  previously,  and  his 
claims  are  to  pique  the  public  ear  more  than 
ever.  Expectation  is  even  now  more  and  more 
stimulated,  and  already,  by  a  few  of  the  boldest 
prophets,  some  very  audacious  speculations  are 
launched  forth.  Time  only  can  show  if  there  is 
indeed  anything  in  them.  This  Walt  Whitman 
—  this  queer  one  whom  most  of  us  have  watched, 
with  more  or  less  amusement,  walking  by  —  this 
goer  and  comer,  for  years,  about  New  York  and 
Washington  —  good  natured  with  everybody, 
like  some  farmer,  or  mate  of  some  coasting  vessel, 
familiarly  accosted  by  all,  hardly  any  one  of  us 
stopping  to  Mr.  him  —  this  man  of  many  charac- 
ters, among  the  rest  that  of  volunteer  help  in  the 
army  hospitals  and  on  the  field  during  the  whole 


THE  CLERK  AND   HIS  FRIENDS        209 

of  the  late  war,  carefully  tending  all  the  wounded 
he  could,  southern  or  northern  —  if  it  should 
turn  out  that  in  this  plain  unsuspected  old  cus- 
tomer, dressed  in  gray  &  wearing  no  neck  tie, 
America  and  her  republican  institutions  are 
possessing  that  rara  avis  a  real  national  poet, 
chanting,  putting  in  form,  in  her  own  proud 
spirit,  in  first  class  style,  for  present  &  future 
time,  her  democratic  shapes  even  as  the  bards 
of  Judah  put  in  song,  for  all  time  to  come,  the 
Hebrew  spirit,  and  Homer  the  war-life  of  pre- 
historic Greece,  and  Shakespeare  the  feudal 
shapes  of  Europe's  kings  and  lords ! 

"  Whether  or  not  the  future  will  justify  such 
extravagant  claims  of  his  admirers,  only  that 
future  itself  can  show.  But  Walt  Whitman  is 
certainly  taking  position  as  an  original  force 
and  new  power  in  literature.  He  has  excited  an 
enthusiasm  among  the  republicans  and  young 
poets  of  Europe  unequalled  by  our  oldest  and 
best  known  names.  The  literary  opposition  to 
him  in  the  United  States  has,  it  is  true,  been 
authoritative,  and  continues  to  be  so.  But  the 
man  has  outlived  the  stress  of  misrepresentation, 
burlesque,  evil  prophecy,  and  all  calumnies  & 
imputations,  and  may  now  answer,  as  Captain 
Paul  Jones  did,  when,  after  the  onslaught  of  the 
Serapis,  he  was  asked  if  he  had  struck  his  colors 
—  'Struck?'  answered  the  Captain  quietly, 


210  WALT  WHITMAN 

*  Not  at  all  —  I  have  only  just  begun  my  part 
of  the  fighting;  " 

The  humor,  the  follies,  and  the  pathos  of 
the  struggle  for  literary  reputation  have  rarely 
been  written  more  clearly  than  in  this  record  of 
Whitman's  visit  to  Dartmouth  College. 

Leaving  Hanover,  Whitman  returned  by  way 
of  Burlington,  Vermont,  where  his  married 
sister,  Hannah,  was  living.  By  the  first  of  July 
he  was  back  in  Washington.  In  September 
his  mother,  now  seventy-five  and  very  feeble, 
moved  to  Camden,  New  Jersey,  to  live  with  her 
son  George,  who  was  prospering  in  business. 
But  her  sojourn  was  to  be  but  brief;  and 
Walt's  ten  years  of  life  in  Washington  were 
almost  over. 

As  the  winter  drew  on,  he  complained  occa- 
sionally of  those  "spells  in  the  head"  which 
had  troubled  him  at  intervals  since  his  break- 
down in  1864.  On  the  23d  of  January,  1873, 
he  sat  late  by  his  astral  lamp  in  the  Treasury 
Building,  reading  a  Bulwer-Lytton  novel.  As 
he  left,  the  guard  thought  that  he  looked  ill. 
Between  three  and  four  in  the  morning,  in  his 
solitary  lodging,  he  woke  to  find  himself  par- 
tially paralyzed.  For  a  few  days  his  friends 
feared  the  worst.  Doyle,  Mrs.  O'Connor,  El- 
dridge,  and  the  rest,  were  constant  in  their  at- 


THE  CLERK  AND  HIS  FRIENDS        211 

tentions.  Then  he  began  to  rally,  and  by  the  last 
of  March  he  was  crawling  back  to  his  desk  for 
a  little  work  each  day.  But  trouble  upon  trouble 
came.  "  Jeff's  "  wife,  Martha,  a  special  favorite, 
died  in  St.  Louis.  The  old  mother  in  Camden 
fell  ill,  and  Walt  was  sorely  anxious.  On  May 
10  he  made  his  own  will.  Ten  days  later, 
feeble  as  he  was,  he  made  the  journey  to  Cam- 
den,  and  he  was  there,  in  his  brother's  little 
house  at  322  Stevens  Street,  when  their 
mother  passed  away.  She  died  on  May  23. 

"  I  cannot  be  reconciled  yet,"  he  wrote  Peter 
Doyle  in  August ;  "  it  is  the  great  cloud  of  my 
life."  Between  Whitman  and  the  large,  simple 
nature  of  his  mother  there  had  been  bonds  of 
deepest  instinctive  sympathy.  Pier  death  left 
him  pathetically  lonely.  His  brother  George 
was  kind,  but  of  a  wholly  different  fibre :  caring, 
as  Walt  once  said,  "more  for  pipes  than  for 
poems."  He  offered  Walt  house-room  at  Cam- 
den,  and  in  the  poet's  illness  and  sorrow  a 
return  to  Washington  seemed,  for  the  present  at 
least,  impossible. 

It  turned  out  that  he  never  went  back.  He 
was  now  fifty-four,  and  he  had  nearly  a  score  of 
years  still  before  him.  But  his  departure  from 
Washington  in  1873  marked  the  end  of  an 
epoch.  Though  he  was  still  to  write  a  few 


212  WALT  WHITMAN 

poems  and  many  of  the  best  pages  of  his  prose, 
the  work  to  which  he  owes  his  fame  was  done. 
He  was  to  make  new  friends,  and  to  become 
increasingly  the  picturesque  object  of  literary 
pilgrimages.  But  the  pleasant  fellowships  of  the 
Washington  period  were  past.  The  circle  broke 
up.  Peter  Doyle  went  to  work  for  the  Pennsyl- 
vania Railroad.  John  Burroughs  bought  a  farm 
on  the  Hudson.  The  loyal  William  O'Connor 
had  become  estranged,  the  original  cause  being, 
it  is  said,  a  trivial  though  violent  difference  of 
opinion  over  the  merits  of  Sumner's  recon- 
struction legislation,  which  Walt  had  attacked 
and  O'Connor  defended  till  both  men  lost  their 
tempers.  Ultimately  they  were  reconciled,  but 
the  estrangement  was  doubly  painful  to  men 
of  such  an  emotional  type,  and  such  capacity 
for  affection. 

In  one  respect  only  does  Whitman,  during 
these  ten  years  and  later,  seem  to  have  failed  in 
the  finer  obligations  of  friendship.  He  accepted 
the  worship  of  those  younger  men,  who  gave 
freely  of  their  time,  their  literary  zeal,  their 
scanty  money,  in  championing  his  cause.  He 
allowed  them  to  think  that  in  certain  aspects  of 
his  past  experience  —  challenged  by  the  enemy, 
and  passionately  defended  by  them  —  his  life 
was  known  to  them.  And  it  was  not.  Loqua- 
cious as  was  Leaves  of  Grass  in  the  mystical 


THE  CLERK  AND  HIS  FRIENDS        213 

frenzies  of  its  confessionals,  the  actual  Walt 
Whitman  of  Brooklyn  and  Washington  was 
shrewdly  reticent.  If  he  chose — as  in  this 
instance  he  did  choose  —  concealment, 

"  the  secrets  of  nature 
Have  not  more  gifts  in  taciturnity." 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  CAMDEN  BARD 

Alas !  how  full  of  fear 

Is  the  fate  of  Prophet  and  Seer ! 

Forevermore,  forevermore, 

It  shall  be  as  it  hath  been  heretofore ; 

The  age  in  which  they  live 

Will  not  forgive 

The  splendor  of  the  everlasting  light 

That  makes  their  foreheads  bright, 

Nor  the  sublime 

Fore-running  of  their  time ! 

LONGFELLOW,  Christus :  A  Mystery. 

CAMDEN,  New  Jersey,  Whitman's  home  dur- 
ing the  last  nineteen  years  of  his  life,  is  to  the 
city  of  Philadelphia,  which  is  separated  from  it 
by  the  Delaware  River,  what  Hoboken  is  to  New 
York,  and  Chelsea  to  Boston.  The  New  York 
Sun  once  described  it  as  the  refuge  of  those 
who  were  in  doubt,  debt,  or  despair.  Yet  it  was 
now  to  have  its  vates  sacer,  with  the  band  of 
disciples,  the  travel-stained  pilgrims,  and  ulti- 
mately the  famous  tomb.  A  lucky  town,  there- 
fore, however  commonplace. 


THE  CAMDEN  BARD  215 

For  some  months  after  his  mother's  death, 
Whitman  occupied  her  room  in  his  brother's 
house  at  322  Stevens  Street.  He  secured  a  sub- 
stitute, Walter  Godey,  to  perform  his  duties  at 
Washington.  The  Treasury  authorities  were  con- 
siderate, and  allowed  this  arrangement  to  con- 
tinue for  more  than  a  year,  when,  as  Whitman 
did  not  return,  his  clerkship  was  given  to  another 
man.  In  the  mean  time  his  life  settled  into  the 
routine  of  semi-invalidism.  He  paid  for  his 
board,  his  savings  being  sufficient  for  his  im- 
mediate maintenance.  In  September,  1873,  the 
Whitmans  moved  to  a  new  corner  house,  431 
Stevens  Street.  Walt,  with  his  old  habit,  chose 
a  room  on  the  top  floor.  On  pleasant  days  he 
would  hobble  with  his  cane  to  the  ferry  and 
cross  the  Delaware  to  Philadelphia,  where  the 
drivers  of  the  Market  Street  horsecars,  who 
knew  him  as  "the  Camden  poet,"  used  to  let  him 
sit  on  their  chairs  upon  the  front  platform  for 
long  rides.  He  wrote  occasionally  to  Eldridge 
and  to  Peter  Doyle,  sending  to  the  latter  Scot- 
tish Chiefs  and  other  books,  together  with  curi- 
ously explicit  advice  about  the  style  of  his 
clothes. 

As  he  gradually  recovered  strength,  he  be- 
gan to  compose  verse  again.  "The  Prayer  of 
Columbus,"  in  which  the  author  is  disguised  as 
the  great  Genoese,  appeared  in  Harper's  for 


216  WALT  WHITMAN 

March,  1874.  "  The  Song  of  the  Universal," 
read  by  proxy  at  the  Commencement  of  Tufts 
College,  Massachusetts,  in  1874,  and  "The 
Song  of  the  Redwood  Tree,"  date  from  this  same 
period ;  and  all  three  poems  are  notable  for  their 
nobility  of  feeling  and  their  comparative  freedom 
from  extravagance  and  eccentricity  of  form. 
Indeed,  in  the  regularity  of  their  rhythmical 
design,  and  their  skillful  use  of  the  repetend  and 
other  technical  devices,  they  are  dangerously 
near  the  confines  of  that  "  conventional "  poetry 
which  Whitman  affected  to  despise. 

He  was  not  wholly  happy  under  his  brother's 
roof,  and  formed  various  plans  for  building  a 
cottage  on  a  cheap  lot  which  he  had  bought,  thus 
"  laying  up  here  in  Camden,"  like  a  sailor  home 
from  voyaging.  But  his  little  hoard  of  ready 
money  was  growing  steadily  less.  He  was  unable 
to  do  any  consecutive  work,  though  he  sometimes 
amused  himself  by  setting  up  some  of  his  poems 
in  a  Camden  printing-office.  Throughout  1875 
he  was  in  low  spirits,  —  lonely,  with  penury  near 
at  hand.  In  the  following  spring,  Mr.  Robert 
Buchanan,  the  English  poet  and  writer,  who  had 
already  involved  himself  in  controversy  with 
Dante  Rossetti  and  Swinburne,  published  in  the 
London  News  a  letter  setting  forth  the  Amer- 
ican neglect  of  Whitman  in  his  illness  and 
poverty.  W.  M.  Rossetti  wrote  to  Whitman  at 


THE  CAMDEN  BARD  217 

once  for  information,  and  the  latter  replied1  with 
much  simplicity  and  self-respect  that  he  was  not 
actually  in  want,  but  that  he  would  gratefully 
accept  any  effort  which  his  English  friends  might 
make  to  further  the  sale  of  his  books,  —  which 
were  still,  it  must  be  remembered,  sold  only  by 
himself.  The  current  edition  was  the  sixth,  — 
the  so-called  Centennial  edition  of  1876,  —  con- 
sisting of  two  volumes,  one  made  up  of  Leaves  of 
Grass,  and  the  other,  entitled  Two  Rivulets? 
containing  a  few  new  poems,  besides  u  Demo- 
cratic Vistas  "  and  other  prose  pieces. 

The  result  of  this  correspondence  was  most 
gratifying.  "  Those  blessed  gales  from  the  Brit- 
ish Isles  probably  (certainly)  saved  me,"  wrote 
Whitman  afterward.  The  price  of  the  books  was 
ten  dollars  a  set,  but  many  Englishmen  followed 
the  example  of  Tennyson  and  Ruskin  in  paying 
double  or  treble  prices,  and  "  both  the  cash  and 
the  emotional  cheer  were  deep  medicines."  In 
the  long  lists  of  subscribers  3  appear  such  well- 
known  names  as  W.  M.  and  Dante  Rossetti, 
Lord  Honghton,  Edward  Dowden,  Mrs.  Gil- 
christ,  Edward  Carpenter,  Alfred  Tennyson, 

1  This  letter  is  printed  on  p.  310  of  the  Prose  Works. 

2  In  a  letter  to  Edward  Dowden,  May  2,  1875,  Whitman  ex- 
plained that  this  title  symbolized  "  two  flowing  chains  of  prose 
&  verse,  emanating1  the  real  &  ideal." 

8  See  page  519  of  Prose  Works. 


218  WALT  WHITMAN 

John  Ruskin,  W.  B.  Scott,  Edmund  Gosse, 
George  Saintsbury,  G.  H.  Lewes,  G.  H.  Bough- 
ton,  Alexander  Ireland,  M.  D.  Con  way,  Rev.  T. 
E.  Brown,  P.  B.  Marston,  J.  H.  McCarthy,  A. 
B.  Grosart,  Hubert  Herkomer,  R.  L.  Nettleship, 
W.  J.  Stillman,  and  F.  Madox  Brown.  No 
wonder  the  broken-down  poet  in  Camden,  ridi- 
culed or  ignored  by  most  of  his  countrymen, 
again  took  heart.  From  a  letter  to  Edward  Dow- 
den,  dated  March  4, 1876,  a  grateful  passage  may 
be  given  here  as  typical  of  Whitman's  feelings. 
"  To-day  comes  your  affectionate  hearty  valued 
letter  of  Feb.  16,  all  right  with  enclosure  —  draft 
12X  10s,  all  deeply  appreciated  —  the  letter  good, 
cannot  be  better,  but,  as  always,  the  spirit  the 
main  thing  —  (altogether  like  some  fresh,  mag- 
netic, friendly  breath  of  breeze  'way  off  there 
from  the  Irish  coast)  —  I  wonder  if  you  can 
know  how  much  good  such  things  do  me." 

That  there  was  some  resentment  in  this  coun- 
try at  the  tone  of  Mr.  Buchanan's  letter  is  evi- 
denced by  a  courteous  rejoinder  to  it  by  George 
William  Curtis.  He  pointed  out  in  the  "  Easy 
Chair"  of  Harper's  Monthly  for  June,  1876, 
that  "  Mr.  Whitman  has  had  the  same  opportun- 
ity that  Mr.  Bryant  and  Mr.  Longfellow  have 
had.  His  works  have  been  very  widely  read  and 
criticised.  He  has  found  a  place  in  several  of 
the  chief  magazines.  He  has  had  an  enthusiastic 


THE  CAMDEN  BARD  219 

and  devoted  body  of  admirers,  who  have  extolled 
him  as  immeasurably  superior  to  all  other 
American  authors.  He  has  been  in  no  sense 
neglected  or  obscure,  but  an  unusual  public 
curiosity  has  always  attended  him.  .  .  .  There 
is  no  conspiracy  against  Mr.  Whitman,  nor  any 
jealousy  of  him  among  the  acknowledged  chiefs 
of  American  literature,  and  were  he  or  his  friends 
to  authorize  an  appeal  like  that  made  by  Mr. 
Buchanan,  there  would  be  a  response,  we  are 
very  sure,  which  would  dispose  of  that  gentle- 
man's assertions  and  innuendoes." 

Whitman  himself  maintained  a  dignified  si- 
lence. With  an  instinct  deeper  than  any  reasoning, 
he  turned  to  Nature,  the  waiting  mother.  Ten 
or  a  dozen  miles  from  Camden  he  found  a  se- 
cluded spot  on  Timber  Creek,  near  a  farmhouse 
kept  by  friendly  people  named  Stafford.  Mak- 
ing his  home  with  them  from  early  spring  to 
autumn,  he  spent  for  two  or  three  years  most  of 
his  time  out  of  doors,  along  the  banks  of  Tim- 
ber Creek.1  At  first  he  asked  but  little :  "  The 
trick  is,  I  find,  to  tone  your  wants  and  tastes 
low  down  enough,  and  make  much  of  negatives, 
and  of  mere  daylight  and  the  skies."  But  soon 
he  found  more  positive  comfort.  "  After  you 
have  exhausted  what  there  is  in  business,  poli- 

1  For  pictures  of  this  delightful  spot,  see  the  illustration* 
in  H.  B.  Binns's  Walt  Whitman. 


220  WALT  WHITMAN 

tics,  conviviality,  love,  and  so  on  —  have  found 
that  none  of  these  finally  satisfy,  or  perma- 
ently  wear  —  what  remains  ?  Nature  remains  ; 
to  bring  out  from  their  torpid  recesses,  the  affini- 
ties of  a  man  or  woman  with  the  open  air,  the 
trees,  fields,  the  changes  of  seasons  —  the  sun 
by  day  and  the  stars  of  heaven  by  night.  .  .  . 
Dear,  soothing,  healthy,  restoration-hours  !  " 

Bathing  solitary  in  the  spring  that  brimmed  an 
abandoned  marl-pit,  wrestling,  as  his  strength 
returned,  with  the  tough  saplings,  sitting  motion- 
less, hour  after  hour,  to  watch  the  dragon-flies 
and  kingfishers,  he  grew  slowly  into  his  old  habit 
of  happiness  again.  The  illness  seemed  to  leave 
him  with  even  finer  senses  than  before  and  with 
a  new  power  of  close  observation  of  the  ways  of 
nature.  His  ear  and  eyesight  had  always  been 
acute,  but  he  had  hitherto  been  a  roamer  through 
the  out-door  world  rather  than  a  watcher  of  it. 
Now  no  sound  or  color  or  perfume  seemed  to 
escape  him ;  he  listened  to  the  migrating  birds  at 
midnight,  the  bumble-bees  in  the  grass,  the  low 
wind  in  the  tree-tops.  He  watched  fugitive  shad- 
ows on  the  grass  and  the  hawk  circling  in  the 
sky,  and  he  was  content  at  heart.  He  learned 
the  lesson  of  the  trees.  He  made  lists,  quite  like 
those  now  recommended  to  twentieth  century 
school-children,  of  the  flowers  and  birds  which  he 
came  to  know  at  sight.  He  wrote  about  all  these 


THE  CAMDEN   BARD  221 

things  in  his  diary,  published  later  under  the  title 
Specimen  Days,  and  neither  Thoreau,  Richard 
Jefferies,  nor  John  Burroughs  has  commanded 
at  will  for  such  a  purpose  a  more  simple  and 
charming  prose. 

But  the  increasing  disposition  of  his  mind,  as 
his  purely  creative  impulse  began  to  slacken,  was 
to  search  back  of  the  outward  facts  of  Nature, 
for  her  spirit  and  purpose.  "  I,  too,  like  the  rest, 
feel  the  modern  tendencies  (from  all  the  prevail1 
ing  intellections,  literature  and  poems)  to  turn 
everything  to  pathos,  ennui,  morbidity,  dissatis- 
faction, death.  Yet  how  clear  it  is  to  me  that 
those  are  not  the  results,  influences  of  Nature 
at  all,  but  of  one's  own  distorted,  sick  or  silly 
soul.  Here,  amid  this  wild,  free  scene,  how  heal- 
thy, how  joyous,  how  clean  and  vigorous  and 
sweet !  "  Often  in  the  lane  or  by  the  stream  at 
night,  he  watched  the  stars,  with  brooding 
thoughts  that  recall  the  meditations  of  dreamers 
like  Amiel  and  Senancour :  "  As  if  for  the  first 
time,  indeed,  creation  noiselessly  sank  into  and 
through  me  its  placid  and  untellable  lesson,  be- 
yond —  O,  so  infinitely  beyond  !  —  anything 
from  art,  books,  sermons  or  from  science,  old 
or  new.  The  spirit's  hour  —  religion's  hour  — 
the  visible  suggestion  of  God  in  space  or  time 
—  now  once  definitely  indicated,  if  never  again. 
The  untold  pointed  at  —  the  heavens  all  paved 


222  WALT  WHITMAN 

with  it.  The  Milky  Way,  as  if  some  super- 
human symphony,  some  ode  of  universal  vague- 
ness disdaining  syllable  and  sound — a  flashing 
glance  of  Deity,  address'd  to  the  soul.  All  silent- 
ly —  the  indescribable  night  and  stars  —  far  off 
and  silently."  1 

Such  lonely  raptures  are  characteristic  of  the 
Timber  Creek  period  of  Whitman's  convales- 
cence. But  many  new  friendships  date  from  these 
years.  In  1876  Mrs.  Gilchrist  settled  in  Phil- 
adelphia, with  her  children,  for  along  sojourn,  and 
Whitman  became  a  frequent  guest  at  her  house. 
In  January,  1877,  he  spoke  briefly  at  the  140th 
anniversary  of  the  birthday  of  Thomas  Paine. 
The  next  month  he  visited  Mr.  and  Mrs.  J.  H. 
Johnston,  new  and  warm  friends  in  New  York,  and 
much  enjoyed  a  reception  in  his  honor.  In  May, 
Edward  Carpenter,  an  attractive  young  English- 
man, full  of  zeal  for  the  Whitman  gospel,  which 
he  has  since  expounded  in  many  books  of  prose 
and  Whitmanian  verse,  came  to  visit  the  poet  in 
Camden.  Shortly  afterward  came  Dr.  R.  M. 
Bucke,  a  Canadian  physician  in  charge  of  the  in- 
sane asylum  at  London,  Ontario.  He  was  then 
forty,  a  man  of  force  and  character,  and  of  good 
professional  standing.  As  his  Cosmic  Con- 
sciousness afterwards  showed,  he  was  himself  a 
mystic  of  a  pronounced  type,  and  had  once,  while 

1  Prose  Works,  p.  112. 


THE  CAMDEN   BARD  223 

driving  home  at  midnight  in  a  hansom  cab,  been 
wrapped  in  a  flame-colored  cloud  and  illuminated 
by  a  consciousness  of  the  possession  of  eternal  life, 
and  of  the  immortality  of  all  men.1  For  nine 
years  previous  to  1877,  he  had  been  reading 
Walt  Whitman,  although  at  first  with  anger  and 
bewilderment.  Now  he  sought  him  out  in  Cam- 
den,  finding  in  the  local  directory  the  address : 
"  Whitman,  Walt,  Poet,  431  Stevens  Street." 
Dr.  Bucke  relates  that  he  was  "  almost  amazed 
by  the  beauty  and  majesty  of  his  person  and  the 
gracious  air  of  purity  that  surrounded  and  per- 
meated him." 2  The  interview  was  but  brief, 
and  Whitman  said  nothing  that  Bucke  remem- 
bered, but  "  a  sort  of  spiritual  intoxication  set 
in.  ...  It  seemed  to  me  at  that  time  certain  that 
he  was  either  actually  a  god  or  in  some  sense 
clearly  and  entirely  preterhuman.  Be  all  this  as 
it  may,  it  is  certain  that  the  hour  spent  that  day 
with  the  poet  was  the  turning  point  of  my  life." 
For  the  next  fifteen  years  Dr.  Bucke  was  un- 
wearied in  the  offices  of  friendship,  publishing  in 
1883  a  valuable  biography  of  Whitman,  and  be- 
coming ultimately  one  of  his  literary  executors. 
John  Burroughs  was  now  settled  happily 

1  See  the  quotation  from  Bucke  in  William  James's  Varie- 
ties of  Religious  Experience,  p.  398. 

2  Walt  Whitman  Fellowship  Papers,  vi,  Philadelphia,  Sep- 
tember, 1894. 


224  WALT  WHITMAN 

upon  his  farm  on  the  Hudson,  and  here  Whit- 
man visited  him  in  1878  and  again  in  the  fol- 
lowing year.  On  April  14,  1879,  he  was  strong 
enough  to  deliver  in  New  York  a  memorial 
address  on  Lincoln,  which  was  repeated  in  sub- 
sequent years  in  Philadelphia  and  in  Boston, 
and  which  he  was  anxious  to  give  annually 
so  long  as  his  strength  should  permit.  These 
lectures  were  attended  by  the  curious  as  well 
as  by  the  loyal,  and  they  received  a  measure 
of  newspaper  publicity.  In  September,  1879, 
Whitman  made  the  second  long  journey  of  his 
life,  traveling  with  friends  as  far  west  as  the 
Rocky  Mountains,  and  returning  to  Camden  in 
January,  after  a  stay  in  St.  Louis  with  his 
brother  "Jeff."  The  story  of  his  travels  is 
written  in  Specimen  Days,  and  in  a  few  pictur- 
esque poems  like  "  Italian  Music  in  Dakota  " 
and  "  Spirits  that  formed  this  Scene."  There 
was  something  in  the  chasms  and  gorges  and 
fantastic  forms  of  the  Eockies  that  made  him 
exclaim  over  and  over  again  :  "  I  have  found 
the  law  of  my  own  poems  !  "  He  felt  anew  that 
the  boundless  prodigality  of  the  Mississippi  and 
Missouri  valleys  had  never  been  adequately 
expressed  in  literature,  but  that  he  himself  had 
made  a  beginning  toward  it. 

In  the  following  June  he  journeyed  to  Canada 
as  the  guest  of  the  friendly  Dr.  Bucke.    On  the 


THE  CAMDEN  BARD  225 

way  he  saw  Niagara.  "  We  were  very  slowly 
crossing  the  Suspension  bridge  —  not  a  full  stop 
anywhere,  but  next  to  it  —  the  day  clear,  sunny, 
still  —  and  I  out  on  the  platform.  The  falls 
were  in  plain  view  about  a  mile  off,  but  very 
distinct,  and  no  roar  —  hardly  a  murmur.  The 
river  trembling  green  and  white,  far  below  me ; 
the  dark,  high  banks,  the  plentiful  umbrage, 
many  bronze  cedars,  in  shadow ;  and  tempering 
and  arching  all  the  immense  materiality,  a  clear 
sky  overhead,  with  a  few  white  clouds,  limpid, 
spiritual,  silent."  He  was  deeply  impressed  by 
the  Sunday  services  for  the  insane  at  Dr. 
Bucke's  asylum,  finding  beneath  those  crazed 
faces,  "  strange  as  it  may  sound,  the  peace  of 
God  that  passeth  all  understanding"  His  older 
brother,  Jesse,  had  died  in  such  a  retreat  ten 
years  before.  Under  Dr.  Bucke's  guidance, 
Whitman  took  the  impressive  trip  up  the  Sag- 
uenay  to  Chicoutimi,  and  then,  after  one  of  the 
happiest  summers  of  his  old  age,  returned  to 
Camden. 

In  February,  1881,  Thomas  Carlyle  died. 
Though  Whitman  had  never  seen  him,  he  had 
read  some  of  his  books  with  close  attention. 
Sartor  Resartus  was  unquestionably  one  of  the 
seed-books  from  which  Leaves  of  Grass  sprang, 
and  many  passages  in  Democratic  Vistas  were 
intended  as  a  reply  to  Carlyle's  pamphlet, 


226  WALT  WHITMAN 

Shooting  Niagara.  Whitman's  reverie,  at  the 
hour  of  Carlyle's  passing,  shows  the  spiritual 
mood  which  grew  more  and  more  characteristic 
of  his  closing  years. 

"  In  the  fine  cold  night,  unusually  clear,  (Feb- 
ruary 5,  '81)  as  I  walk'd  some  open  grounds 
adjacent,  the  condition  of  Carlyle,  and  his  ap- 
proaching —  perhaps  even  then  actual  —  death, 
filled  me  with  thoughts  eluding  statement,  and 
curiously  blending  with  the  scene.  The  Planet 
Venus,  an  hour  high  in  the  west,  with  all  her 
volume  and  lustre  recover'd,  (she  has  been  shorn 
and  languid  for  nearly  a  year,)  including  an  ad- 
ditional sentiment  I  had  never  noticed  before  — 
not  merely  voluptuous,  Paphian,  steeping,  fasci- 
nating—  now  with  calm,  commanding  seriousness 
and  hauteur  —  the  Milo  Venus  now.  Upward 
to  the  zenith  Jupiter,  Saturn,  and  the  moon  past 
her  quarter,  trailing  in  procession,  with  the  Plei- 
ades following,  and  the  constellation  Taurus  and 
red  Aldebaran.  Not  a  cloud  in  heaven.  Orion 
strode  through  the  southeast,  with  his  glittering 
belt  —  and  a  trifle  below  hung  the  sun  of  the 
night,  Sirius.  Every  star  dilated,  more  vitreous, 
nearer  than  usual.  Not  as  in  some  clear  nights 
when  the  larger  stars  entirely  outshine  the  rest. 
Every  little  star  or  cluster  just  as  distinctly  vis- 
ible, and  just  as  nigh.  Berenice's  hair  showing 
every  gem,  and  new  ones.  To  the  northeast  and 


THE  CAMDEN  BARD  227 

north  the  Sickle,  the  Goat  and  Kids,  Cassiopeia, 
Castor  and  Pollux,  and  the  two  dippers.  While 
through  the  whole  of  the  silent,  indescribable 
show,  inclosing  and  bathing  my  whole  receptivity, 
ran  the  thought  of  Carlyle  dying.  (To  soothe  and 
spiritualize,  and,  as  far  as  may  be  solve  the  mys- 
teries of  death  and  genius,  consider  them  under 
the  stars  at  midnight). 

"  And  now  that  he  has  gone  hence,  can  it  be 
that  Thomas  Carlyle,  soon  to  chemically  dissolve 
to  ashes  and  by  winds,  remains  an  identity  still  ? 
In  ways  perhaps  eluding  all  the  statements,  lore 
and  speculations  of  ten  thousand  years  —  eluding 
all  possible  statements  to  mortal  sense  —  does  he 
yet  exist,  a  definite,  vital  being,  a  spirit,  an  in- 
dividual —  perhaps  now  wafted  in  space  among 
those  stellar  systems,  which,  suggestive  and  lim- 
itless as  they  are,  merely  edge  more  limitless,  far 
more  suggestive  systems  ?  I  have  no  doubt  of  it. 
In  silence,  of  a  fine  night,  such  questions  are 
answer'd  to  the  soul,  the  best  answers  that  can 
be  given.  With  me,  too,  when  depressed  by  some 
specially  sad  event,  or  tearing  problem,  I  wait 
till  I  go  out  under  the  stars  for  the  last  voiceless 
satisfaction."  * 

In  April  Whitman  visited  Boston  to  read  the 
Lincoln  lecture,  and  found  to  his  pleasure  "  a 
good  deal  of  the  Hellenic  "  in  the  old  city,  "  and 

1  Prose  Works,  p.  162. 


228  WALT  WHITMAN 

the  people  getting  handsome  too,"  especially  the 
gray-haired  women  at  his  lecture,  "healthy  and 
wifely  and  motherly,  and  wonderfully  charming 
and  beautiful."  He  was  received  with  "  glowing 
warmth  and  courtesy  "  by  Longfellow,  who  had 
visited  him  in  Camden  three  years  before.  For 
"  two  rapt  hours  "  he  sat  before  the  collection  of 
J.  F.  Millet's  pictures  at  Mr.  Quincy  A.  Shaw's, 
penetrated  and  uplifted  by  the  spirit  of  that  great 
artist,  between  whose  genius  and  that  of  Whitman 
himself  there  are  so  many  points  of  contact.  And 
Whitman  also  stood  for  a  long  time  late  one 
Sunday  afternoon,  "in  silence  and  half  lights, 
in  the  great  nave  of  Memorial  hall,  Cambridge, 
the  walls  thickly  cover'd  with  mural  tablets, 
bearing  the  names  of  students  and  graduates  of 
the  university  who  fell  in  the  secession  war." 
He  knew  what  it  signified. 

A  few  weeks  later  he  went  back,  after  an  ab- 
sence of  forty  years  (save  for  one  brief  visit)  to 
see  the  village  where  he  was  born.  Dr.  Bucke 
accompanied  him,  and  they  drove  over  the  old 
farms  of  Walt's  ancestors,  and  deciphered  the 
moss-grown  names  in  the  ancient  family  burying 
grounds  of  the  Whitmans  and  Van  Velsors.  A 
few  of  the  older  inhabitants  of  Hunting-ton  re- 
membered him,  but  there  was  then,  as  there  is 
to-day,  but  a  scant  measure  of  local  pride  in 
Whitman's  fame.  At  the  Bicentennial  of  Suffolk 


THE  CAMDEN  BARD  229 

County,  in  1883,  the  orator  of  the  day  pointed 
proudly  to  poets  of  the  county :  "  In  poetry, 
Terry,  Gardiner  and  Tooker  hold  no  mean  place.'* 
But  he  forgot  Walt  Whitman. 

After  returning  from  Long  Island,  Whitman 
lingered  a  while  in  New  York  and  found  his 
former  host,  Pfaff,  in  a  new  restaurant  on  24th 
Street.  The  two  old  men  drank  to  the  memory 
of  the  long  vanished  frequenters  of  their  shabby 
Bohemia  in  "  big,  brimming,  fill'd  up  champagne 
glasses,  drain'd  in  abstracted  silence." 

After  his  visit  to  Boston  in  April  he  had  re- 
ceived a  proposal,  through  John  Boyle  O'Reilly, 
from  the  firm  of  James  K.  Osgood  and  Company, 
to  publish  a  definitive  edition  of  Leaves  of  Grass. 
He  replied  that  the  edition,  if  published  by  this 
house,  must  be  complete  :  "  Fair  warning  on  one 
point,  the  sexuality  odes  about  which  the  original 
row  was  started  and  kept  up  so  long  are  all  re- 
tained and  must  go  in  the  same  as  ever."  l  The 
publishers  therefore  asked  to  see  the  copy,  and 
formally  accepted  the  book,  agreeing  to  pay  a 
royalty  of  twelve  and  one  half  per  cent.  For  the 
first  time  since  the  unlucky  Thayer  and  Eldridge 
edition  of  1860  the  book  was  to  bear  a  regular 
publisher's  imprint,  and  the  house  was  one  of 
high  standing.  At  the  end  of  August,  Whitman 

1  See  "  Walt  Whitman  and  his  Second  Boston  Publishers," 
Camden  Edition,  volume  viii.  p.  276. 


230  WALT  WHITMAN 

returned  to  Boston  to  see  the  edition  through 
the  press.  For  two  or  three  months  he  enjoyed 
himself  greatly.  He  made  his  headquarters  at 
the  Hotel  Bulfinch,  spent  much  of  his  spare  time 
on  the  Common  and  by  the  shore  at  City  Point, 
and  was  hospitably  entertained  on  all  sides. 

The  most  significant  courtesy  which  he  re- 
ceived, came,  he  thought,  from  Concord.  He 
was  the  guest  of  Mr.  F.  B.  Sanborn,  and  shortly 
after  his  arrival  had  a  "  long  and  blessed  even- 
ing" with  Emerson.  Whitman  described  the 
elder  poet  with  one  of  those  graphic  little  touches 
in  which  Carlyle  alone  surpassed  him  :  "  a  good 
color  in  his  face,  eyes  clear,  with  the  well-known 
expression  of  sweetness,  and  the  old  dear-peering 
aspect  quite  the  same."  The  next  day  Whitman, 
with  his  host  and  hostess,  was  bidden  to  a  family 
dinner  at  the  Emerson  home.  As  is  well  known, 
Emerson's  memory  was  failing  rapidly,  and 
his  son  has  noted  that  he  had  to  be  told  who 
Whitman  was.  But  to  Whitman  the  dinner  was 
deeply  symbolical.  There  is  something  touching 
in  his  interpretation  of  it. 

"  I  doubt  whether  there  is  anything  more  af- 
fecting or  emphatic  in  Emerson's  whole  career 
—  a  sort  of  last  coruscation  in  the  evening  twi- 
light of  it  —  than  his  driving  over  to  Frank 
Sanborn's  in  Concord  Sept.  1881  to  deliberate- 
ly pay  those  *  respects '  for  which  he  had  obli- 


THE  CAMDEN  BARD  231 

gated  himself  twenty-five  years  before.  Nor  was 
the  unusual  compliment  of  the  hospitable  but 
formal  dinner  made  the  next  day  for  Walt 
Whitman  by  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Emerson,  without  a 
marked  significance.  It  was  a  beautiful  autumn 

O 

Sunday.  And  if  that  afternoon,  with  its  occur- 
rences there  in  his  own  mansion,  surrounded  by 
all  his  family,  wife,  son,  daughters,  son-in-law, 
nearest  relatives  and  two  or  three  very  near 
friends  —  some  fourteen  or  fifteen  in  all  —  if 
that  does  not  mean  how  Emerson  by  this  simple, 
yet  almost  solemn  rite,  wished  before  he  de- 
parted to  reiterate  and  finally  seal  his  verdict  of 
1856  [1855],  then  there  is  no  significance  in 
human  life  or  its  emotions  or  actions."  1 

Whitman  returned  to  Camden  in  November, 
and  throughout  the  winter  was  cheered  by  the 
moderate  success  of  the  Osgood  edition,  which 
sold  about  two  thousand  copies.  Then,  on  March 
1,  1882,  came  trouble.  Oliver  Stevens,  the  Dis- 
trict Attorney  at  Boston,  upon  complaint  made 
by  the  Society  for  the  Suppression  of  Vice,  and 
under  the  direction  of  State  Attorney-General 
Marston,  notified  Osgood  and  Company  that 
Leaves  of  Grass  was  "  within  the  provisions  of 

1  From  a  hitherto  unprinted  memorandum  of  "  Whitman's 
relations  to  Emerson,"  enclosed  in  a  letter  to  O'Connor  on  May 
28,  1882,  for  O'Connor's  use  in  a  proposed  letter  to  the  New 
York  Tribune. 


232  WALT  WHITMAN 

the  Public  Statutes  respecting  obscene  litera- 
ture," and  "  suggested  "  its  suppression.  Whit- 
man, upon  receiving  word  from  the  publishers 
that  they  were  "  naturally  reluctant  to  be  iden- 
tified with  any  legal  proceedings  in  a  matter  of 
this  nature,"  receded  temporarily  from  his  ear- 
Her  position,  and  wrote  :  "  I  am  willing  to 
make  a  revision  and  cancellation  in  the  pages 
alluded  to  —  would  n't  be  more  than  half  a 
dozen  anyhow  —  perhaps  indeed  about  ten  lines 
to  be  left  out  and  a  half  dozen  words  or  phrases." 
But  this  would  not  serve.  The  District  At- 
torney furnished  a  list  of  the  passages  and  lines 
which  must  be  expunged.1  Whitman,  who  was 
now  getting  obstinate  again,  rejected  it  "whole 
and  several."  Then  the  publishers  proposed  as 
a  probably  satisfactory  compromise,  the  omis- 
sion of  two  poems  only,2  —  the  remaining  pas- 
sages to  be  allowed  to  stand.  Whitman  replied : 
"  No,  I  cannot  consent  to  leave  out  the  two 
pieces."  There  was  therefore  nothing  left  for 
the  publishers  but  to  stand  trial  or  cease  to  cir- 
culate the  book.  They  chose  the  latter  course, 
and  after  an  amicable  correspondence  turned 
over  the  plates  of  the  book  to  the  author.  He 
promptly  transferred  them  to  Rees,  Welsh  and 

1  Given  on  p.  149  of  Bucke's  Walt  Whitman. 

2  "  A  Woman  Waits  for  Me,"   and  "  To  a  Common  Prosti- 
tute." 


THE  CAMDEN  BARD  233 

Company,  of  Philadelphia,  who  were  soon  suc- 
ceeded by  David  McKay. 

"  I  do  not  myself,"  wrote  Whitman  to  O'Con- 
nor, "  feel  any  resentment  towards  Osgood  and 
Company  for  anything  done  me  or  the  book  — 
They  have  acted  with  reference  to  conventional 
business  and  other  circumstances.  Marston  is 
the  target  for  you."  l  O'Connor's  reconciliation 
with  Whitman  had  but  recently  taken  place,  yet 
Walt  knew  that  he  could  count  upon  the  hot- 
tempered  Irishman  in  this  emergency.  The  New 
York  Tribune  opened  its  columns  to  O'Connor 
on  May  25,  and  he  blazed  away  at  his  triple- 
"target" — Osgood,  Marston,  and  Stevens  — 
to  his  heart's  content.2  Other  American  news- 
papers —  with  but  very  few  exceptions  —  were 
outspoken  in  their  condemnation  of  the  ill-advised 
action  of  the  Massachusetts  authorities.  Post- 
master Tobey  of  Boston,  who  had  excluded 
Leaves  of  Grass  from  the  mails,  was  directed  by 
the  Washington  authorities  to  revoke  his  order. 
It  proved  to  be  the  last  attempt  at  such  perse- 
cution. For  the  remaining  ten  years  of  his  life, 
though  his  poetry  was  frequently  ridiculed,  Whit- 
man received  from  the  press  and  the  public 
almost  unvarying  personal  kindness  and  respect. 

1  Unpublished  letter  of  May  17,  1882. 

2  For  a  portion  of  this  communication,  see  Bucke's 
Whitman,  pp.  150-152. 


234  WALT  WHITMAN 

It  was  during  this  spring  of  1882  that  both 
Longfellow  and  Emerson  passed  away.  No  bio- 
grapher or  critic  of  Longfellow  has  character- 
ized him  more  felicitously  than  Whitman  in  this 
passage  from  his  diary :  "  He  is  certainly  the 
sort  of  bard  and  counteractant  most  needed  for 
our  materialistic,  self-assertive,  money- worship- 
ping, Anglo-Saxon  races,  and  especially  for  the 
present  age  in  America  —  an  age  tyrannically 
regulated  with  reference  to  the  manufacturer, 
the  merchant,  the  financier,  the  politician  and 
the  day  workman  —  for  whom  and  among  whom 
he  comes  as  the  poet  of  melody,  courtesy,  defer- 
ence—  poet  of  the  mellow  twilight  of  the  past 
in  Italy,  Germany,  Spain  and  in  Northern  Eu- 
rope — poet  of  all  sympathetic  gentleness — and 
universal  poet  of  women  and  young  people.  I 
should  have  to  think  long  if  I  were  asked  to 
name  the  man  who  has  done  more,  and  in  more 
valuable  directions,  for  America."  Whitman's 
comment  upon  Emerson's  death,  a  month  later, 
was  also  very  perfect :  "  A  just  man,  poised  on 
himself,  all-loving,  all-inclosing,  and  sane  and 
clear  as  the  sun."  A  more  formal  criticism  of 
Emerson,  in  his  Prose  Works,1  contains  some 
penetrating  sentences :  "  His  final  influence  is 
to  make  his  students  cease  to  worship  anything 
—  almost  cease  to  believe  in  anything,  outside 

i  Page  315. 


THE   CAMDEN   BARD  235 

of  themselves.  .  .  .  The  best  part  of  Emerson- 
ianism is,  it  breeds  the  giant  that  destroys  it- 
self. Who  wants  to  be  any  man's  mere  follower  ? 
lurks  behind  every  page.  No  teacher  ever  taught, 
that  has  so  provided  for  his  pupils'  setting  up 
independently  —  no  truer  evolutionist."  Such 
passages  as  these,  together  with  similar  ones 
upon  Poe,  Bryant,  Whittier,  Burns,  and  Tenny- 
son, reveal  a  critical  tact,  a  fineness  both  of 
perception  and  of  phrasing,  which  has  surprised 
many  readers  who  knew  Whitman  only  as  the 
chanter  of  "  barbaric  yawps." 

In  the  autumn  of  1882  he  published  Specimen 
Days  and  Collect,1  a  volume  including  all  of 
his  prose  then  gathered.  He  wrote  to  O'Connor : 
"Do  you  know  what  ducks  and  drakes  are? 
Well,  S.  D.  [Specimen  Days]  is  a  rapid  skim- 
ming over  the  pond-surface  of  my  life  .  .  .  the 
real  area  altogether  untouched,  but  the  flat  peb- 
ble making  a  few  dips  as  it  flies  &  flits  along 
—  enough  at  least  to  give  some  living  touches 
and  contact  points." 2  This  was  a  modest  descrip- 
tion of  a  book  which  contains  much  delightful 
and  suggestive  writing,  but  which  has  never  won 
an  audience  at  all  comparable  with  its  deserts.3 

1  Rees,  Welsh  and  Company,  Philadelphia.    Some  copies 
have  the  imprint  of  David  McKay. 

2  From  an  unpublished  letter. 

8  "Nobody  cares  a  damn  for  the  prose,"  was  Whitman's 
terse  summary  of  the  situation. 


236  WALT  WHITMAN 

Dr.  Bucke's  biographical  and  critical  study 
entitled  Walt  Whitman  l  was  now  ready,  and 
was  published  in  1883.  Frankly  the  work  of  a 
personal  friend  and  disciple,  it  nevertheless  en- 
deavored to  present  all  the  known  facts  about 
the  poet.  It  gathered  a  mass  of  contemporary 
testimony  and  opinion.  In  a  circular  sent  out  in 
June,  1880,  begging  for  personal  memoranda 
about  Whitman  to  be  used  in  preparing  this  bio- 
graphy, Dr.  Bucke  had  said  plainly:  "I  am 
myself  fully  satisfied  that  Walt  Whitman  is  one 
of  the  greatest  men,  if  not  the  very  greatest  man, 
that  the  world  has  so  far  produced."  The  appen- 
dix contained  many  of  the  criticisms  called  forth 
by  the  first  editions  of  Leaves  of  Grass.  O'Con- 
nor's "  Good  Gray  Poet "  was  included,  —  re- 
printed in  its  entirety,  with  a  few  verbal  changes, 
—  and  O'Connor  introduced  it  with  a  new  letter, 
more  than  half  as  long  as  his  original  pamphlet, 
in  which  he  attacked  Walt's  recent  critics  with 
unabated  fire  and  fury.  All  this  gave  Dr.  Bucke's 
book  a  polemical  tone  which  limited  its  influence. 
A  single  well-considered  essay  like  that  published 
by  Mr.  E.  C.  Stedman  in  Scribner's  (now  the 
Century)  for  November,  1880,  —  half-hearted  as 
it  then  seemed  to  Whitman,  O'Connor,  and  Bucke, 
— probably  did  more  to  win  readers  for  the  poet 
than  all  the  uudiscriminating  eulogy  of  the 
1  Philadelphia,  David  McKay,  1883. 


THE  CAMDEN  BARD  237 

Whitman  Militants.  Nevertheless,  Dr.  Buckets 
loyalty  and  zeal  have  placed  every  admirer  of 
Whitman  under  obligation  to  him,  and  his  book 
remains  one  of  permanent  interest  to  students. 

One  result  of  its  publication  was  a  renewed 
exchange  of  letters  between  Whitman  and  O'Con- 
nor. The  former  writes,  apropos  of  a  slighting 
reference  by  Emerson,  published  not  long  before 
in  the  Carlyle-Emerson  correspondence :  — 

CAMDBN  N  J 

Feb:21  '83— p.m. 

....  I  am  curious  to  see  the  Carlyle-Emerson 
letters  —  (had  not  heard  before  about  my  being 
in  them)  —  You  hit  long  ago  on  the  reason  why 
of  the  Emerson  (apparent)  change,  or  defection 
or  cloud  —  whatever  it  is  to  be  call'd  —  it  was 
the  interference,  doubtless  hard  lying,  of  others, 
—  and  there  was  &  is  a  little  knot  of  my  most 
malignant  enemies,  —  deadly  haters^  —  in  & 
around  Boston  —  some  in  high  quarters  —  and 
they  plied  the  man  incessantly.1 

One  may  trace  here  the  evidence,  which  is  to 
be  noted  increasingly  in  Whitman's  last  years, 
of  an  occasional  petulance,  —  the  grievance  of  a 
man  who  imagines  that  he  is  under  persecution. 
That  Emerson  was  ever  in  this  way  "  plied  in- 
cessantly "  by  any  one,  is  too  absurd  for  serious 

1  From  au  unpublished  letter. 


238  WALT  WHITMAN 

refutation.  Equally  absurd  was  Whitman's  no- 
tion that  Ruskin,  who  had  spoken  to  friends 
about  Leaves  of  Grass,  —  "  Emerson  and  Whit- 
man are  deadly  true  —  in  the  sense  of  rifles  — 
against  all  our  deadliest  sins "  —  somehow 
feared  to  address  its  author.  Yet  the  letter  in 
which  he  expresses  this  notion  is  most  interesting. 

OCT.  7  '83. 

The  worry  of  Ruskin  with  Leaves  of  Grass 
is  that  they  are  too  personal,  too  emotional  — 
launched  from  the  fires  of  myself,  my  special 
passions,  joys,  yearnings,  doubts  appetites  &c 
&c :  —  which  is  really  what  the  book  is  mainly 
for  (as  a  type  however  for  those  passions,  joys, 
workings  &c  in  all  the  race,  at  least  as  shown 
under  modern  &  especially  American  auspices). 

Then  I  think  he  winces  at  what  seems  to  him 
the  Democratic  brag  of  L.  of  Gr. 

I  have  heard  from  R.  several  times  through 
English  visitor  friends  of  his  —  It  is  quite  cer- 
tain that  he  has  intended  writing  to  me  at  length 
—  &  has  doubtless  made  draughts  of  such  writ- 
ing—  but  defers  &  fears  —  &  has  not  yet  written. 

R.  like  a  true  Englishman  evidently  believes 
in  the  high  poetic  art  of  (only)  making  abstract 
works,  poems,  of  some  fine  plot  or  subject,  stir- 
ring, beautiful,  very  noble,  completed  within  their 
own  centre  &  radius,  &  nothing  to  do  with  the 


THE  CAMDEN  BARD  239 

poet's  special  personality,  nor  exhibiting  the 
least  trace  of  it  —  like  Shakspere's  great  unsur- 
passable dramas.  But  I  have  dashed  at  the 
greater  drama  going  on  within  myself  &  every 
human  being  —  that  is  what  I  have  been  after.1 

W.  W. 

Among  the  readers  of  Dr.  Bucke's  book  was 
Lafcadio  Hearn,  then  a  struggling  journalist  in 
New  Orleans.  He  had  already  been  a  corre- 
spondent of  O'Connor's,  and  recognized  the  lat- 
ter's  influence  in  the  new  volume.  One  of  his 
letters  about  Whitman  is  so  typical  of  the  feel- 
ing of  many  of  the  younger  literary  men  during 
the  eighties  that  a  considerable  portion  of  it  may 
be  given  here  :  — 

278  Canal  Street, 
NEW  ORLEANS,  La.  Aug.  ^ 

MY  DEAR  MR.  O'CONNOR, 

.  .  .  Your  beautiful  little  book  —  I  say  your, 
because  I  cannot  verily  distinguish  any  other^er- 
sonality  in  it  —  came  like  a  valued  supplement 
to  an  edition  of  Leaves  of  Grass  in  my  library. 
I  have  always  secretly  admired  Whitman,  and 
would  have  liked  on  more  than  one  occasion  to 
express  my  opinion  in  public  print.  But  in  jour- 
nalism this  is  not  easy  to  do.  There  is  no  possi- 
bility of  praising  Whitman  unreservedly  in  the 

1  Unpublished. 


240  WALT  WHITMAN 

ordinary  newspaper,  whose  proprietors  always 
tell  you  to  remember  that  their  paper  "  goes 
into  respectable  families,"  or  accuse  you  of  lov- 
ing obscene  literature  if  you  attempt  controversy. 
Journalism  is  not  really  a  literary  profession. 
The  journalist  of  to-day  is  obliged  to  hold  him- 
self ready  to  serve  any  cause,  —  like  the  condot- 
tieri  of  feudal  Italy,  or  the  free  captains  of  other 
centuries.  If  he  can  enrich  himself  sufficiently 
to  acquire  comparative  independence  in  this 
really  nefarious  profession,  —  then,  indeed,  he 
is  able  to  freely  utter  his  heart's  sentiments  and 
indulge  his  tastes,  like  that  assthetic  and  wicked 
Giovanni  Malatesta  whose  life  Yriarte  has  writ- 
ten. 

I  do  not  think  that  I  could  ever  place  so  lofty 
an  estimate  upon  the  poet's  work,  however,  as 
you  give,  —  although  no  doubt  rests  in  my  mind 
as  to  your  critical  superiority.  I  think  that 
Genius  must  have  greater  attributes  than  mere 
creative  power  to  be  called  to  the  front  rank;  — 
the  thing  created  must  be  beautiful,  it  does  not 
satisfy  rne  if  the  material  be  rich.  I  cannot  con- 
tent myself  with  ores  and  rough  jewels  :  I  want 
to  see  the  gold  purified  and  wrought  into  mar- 
vellous fantastic  shapes ;  I  want  to  see  the  jewels 
cut  into  roses  of  facets,  or  turned  as  by  Greek 
cunning  into  faultless  witchery  of  nude  loveli- 
ness. And  Whitman's  gold  seems  to  me  in  the 


THE  CAMDEN  BARD  241 

ore  :  his  diamonds  and  emeralds  in  the  rough. 
Would  Homer  be  Homer  to  us  but  for  the  bil- 
lowy roar  of  his  mighty  verse  —  the  perfect 
cadence  of  his  song  that  has  the  regularity  of 
ocean-diapason  ?  I  think  not.  And  do  not  all  the 
Titans  of  antique  literature  polish  their  lines, 
chisel  their  words  according  to  severest  laws  of 
art  ?  Whitman's  is  indeed  a  Titanic  voice  ;  but 
it  seems  to  me  the  voice  of  the  giant  beneath 
the  volcano,  —  half-stifled,  half-uttered, — roar- 
ing betimes  because  articulation  is  impossible. 

Beauty  there  is ;  but  it  must  be  sought  for ; 
it  does  not  flash  out  from  hastily  turned  Leaves ; 
it  only  comes  to  one  after  full  and  thoughtful 
perusal,  like  a  great  mystery  whose  key-word 
may  only  be  found  after  long  study.  But  the 
reward  is  worth  the  pain.  That  beauty  is  cos- 
mical :  it  is  world-beauty  :  —  there  is  something 
of  the  antique  pantheism  in  the  book,  and  some- 
thing larger  too,  expanding  to  the  stars  and  be- 
yond. What  most  charms  me,  however,  is  that 
which  is  most  earthy  and  of  the  earth.  I  was 
amused  at  spme  of  the  criticisuis  —  especially 
that  in  the  Critic — to  the  effect  that  Mr.  Whit- 
man might  have  some  taste  for  natural  beauty, 
etc.,  as  an  animal  has !  Ah  !  that  was  a  fine 
touch!  Now  it  is  just  the  animalism  of  the  work 
which  constitutes  its  great  force  to  me  —  not  a 
brutal  animalism,  but  a  human  animalism,  such 


242  WALT  WHITMAN 

as  the  thoughts  of  antique  poets  reveal  to  us : 
the  inexplicable  delight  of  being,  the  intoxica- 
tion of  perfect  health,  the  unutterable  pleasure 
of  breathing  mountain  wind,  of  gazing  at  a  blue 
sky,  of  leaping  into  clear  deep  water  and  drifting 
with  a  swimmer's  dreamy  confidence  down  the 
current,  with  strange  thoughts  that  drift  faster. 
Communion  with  nature  teaches  philosophy  to 
those  who  love  that  communion ;  and  Nature 
imposes  silence  sometimes  that  we  may  be  forced 
to  think  :  —  the  Men  of  the  Plains  say  little. 
"  You  don't  feel  like  talking  out  there,"  I  heard 
one  say  :  "  the  silence  makes  you  silent."  Such 
a  man  could  not  tell  us  just  what  he  thought 
under  that  vastness,  in  the  heart  of  that  silence  : 
but  Whitman  tells  us  for  him.  And  he  also  tells 
us  what  we  ought  to  think,  or  to  remember, 
about  things  which  are  not  of  the  wilderness 
but  of  the  city.  He  is  an  animal,  if  the  Critic 
pleases,  but  a  human  animal  — not  a  camel  that 
weeps  and  sobs  at  the  sight  of  the  city  gates. 
He  is  rude,  joyous,  fearless,  artless  (to  me), —  a 
singer  who  knows  nothing  of  musical  law,  but 
whose  voice  is  as  the  voice  of  Pan.  And  in  the 
violent  magnetism  of  the  man,  the  great  vital 
energy  of  his  work,  the  rugged  and  ingenuous 
kindliness  of  his  speed,  the  vast  joy  of  his  song, 
the  discernment  by  him  of  the  Universal  Life, 
—  I  cannot  help  imagining  that  I  perceive  some- 


THE  CAMDEN  BARD  243 

thing  of  the  antique  sylvan  deity,  —  the  faun  or 
the  Satyr.  Not  the  distorted  Satyr  of  modern 
cheap  classics :  but  the  ancient  and  godly  one, 
"  inseparably  connected  with  the  worship  of 
Dionysus  "  and  sharing  with  that  divinity  the 
powers  of  healing,  saving  and  foretelling,  not 
less  than  the  orgiastic  pleasures  over  which  the 
androgynous  god  presided. 

Thus  I  see  great  beauty  in  Whitman,  great 
force,  great  cosmical  truths  sung  of  in  mystical 
words,  but  the  singer  seems  to  me  nevertheless 
barbaric.  You  have  called  him  a  bard.  He  is ! 
But  his  bard-songs  are  like  the  improvisations 
of  a  savage  skald,  or  a  forest  Druid  :  immense 
the  thought!  mighty  the  words: — but  the  music 
is  wild,  harsh,  rude,  primeval.  I  cannot  believe 
it  will  endure  as  a  great  work  endures :  I  cannot 
think  the  bard  is  a  creator,  but  only  a  Precursor 

—  only  the  voice  of  one  crying  in  the  wilderness 

—  Make  straight  the  path  for  the  Great  Singer 
who  is  to  come  after  me!  And,  therefore,  even 
though  I  may  differ  from  you  in  the  nature  of 
my  appreciation  of  Whitman,  I  love  the  soul  of 
his  work,  and  I  think  it  a  duty  to  give  all  possi- 
ble aid  and  recognition  to  his  literary  priesthood. 
Whatsoever  you  do  to  defend,  to  elevate,  to  glo- 
rify his  work  you  do  for  the  Literature  of  the 
Future,  for  the  cause  of  poetical  Liberty,  for  the 
cause  of  mental  freedom.   Your  book  is  doubly 


244  WALT  WHITMAN 

beautiful  to  me,  therefore ;  and  I  believe  it  will 
endure  to  be  consulted  in  future  times,  when  men 
shall  write  the  "  History  of  the  Literary  Move- 
ment of  1900,"  as  men  have  already  written  the 
JHistoire  du  fiomantisme. 

As  time  went  by,  Whitman  felt  a  renewed 
desire  to  have  a  home  of  his  own.  His  brother 
and  sister-in-law  at  431  Stevens  Street  were 
most  kind.  He  had  particularly  loved  their 
infant  son  Walter,  who  had  been  named  after 
him,  and  there  is  a  peculiar  pathos  —  if  one  re- 
calls the  secrets  of  his  early  life  —  in  the  old 
man's  sorrow  at  the  child's  death.  He  wrote  to 
Mrs.  O'Connor :  — 

CAMDEN,  July  13,  (1876) 

Nelly  this  is  a  sad  house  today  —  little 
Walt  died  last  evening  about  }4  past  8.  Par- 
tially sick  but  sudden  at  last — suddenly  turned 
to  water  on  the  brain  —  to  be  buried  tomorrow 
afternoon  at  4. 

George  and  Lou  are  standing  it  pretty  well 

—  I    am    miserable  —  He   knew    me     so   well 

—  we  had  already  such  good  times  —  and  I  was 
counting  so  much.1 

But  completely  as  he  had  entered  into  the 
troubles  or  the  happiness  of  his  brother's  house, 

1   Unpublished  letter. 


THE  CAMDEN  BARD  245 

he  wanted  now  to  be  by  himself.  In  vain  did 
John  Burroughs  try  to  persuade  him  to  come 
to  Esopus  to  live  ;  another  friend  offered  him  a 
house  in  Philadelphia.  He  preferred,  with  the 
inertia  of  old  age,  to  "  lay  up  "  in  Camden.  Ac- 
cordingly he  purchased  in  March,  1884,  for  $  1750, 
a  small  two-story  house,  No.  328  Mickle  Street. 
He  had  nearly  $1300,  the  proceeds  of  the  Phil- 
adelphia edition  of  1883,  and  George  W.  Childs, 
with  characteristic  generosity,  loaned  him  the 
balance.  It  was  a  mean  house,  upon  an  unlovely 
street.  Trains  jangled  and  roared  at  a  railroad 
crossing  not  far  away ;  when  the  wind  sat  in  a 
certain  quarter  there  was  a  guano  factory  to  be 
reckoned  with.  The  house  was  hot  in  summer, 
and  had  no  furnace  for  the  winter  months.  But 
Whitman  was  indifferent  to  its  ugliness  and 
discomfort.  There  was  a  lilac-bush  in  the  back 
yard,  and  that  pleased  him.  After  some  experi- 
ment he  secured  as  housekeeper  a  widow  named 
Mrs.  Mary  Davis.  Some  critics  thought  her  an 
inefficient  manager,  although  good-natured  and 
faithful  according  to  her  lights.  Her  passion 
for  sewing  lace  collars  on  the  poet's  shirts  ex- 
ceeded, however,  her  zeal  for  the  broom  and 
dust-pan.1  A  black  cat,  a  spotted  dog,  a  parrot, 
and  a  canary,  completed  the  household. 

Such  was  the  rather  comfortless  home  which 
Whitman  made  for  himself  at  sixty-five,  and  in 

1  See  Appendix. 


246  WALT  WHITMAN 

which  he  passed  the  remaining  eight  years  of  his 
life.  Here  he  was  visited  by  hundreds  of  persons 
eager  to  look  upon  his  very  noble  face  and  to 
touch  the  hand  which  he  used  to  extend  with  a 
royal  graciousness.  Sometimes  they  were  asked 
to  partake  of  one  of  his  simple  meals.  Some  of 
them  brought  little  gifts :  fruit,  or  his  favorite 
mixture  of  coffee,  or  a  bottle  of  wine.  He  loved 
to  share  these  delicacies  with  the  sick  and  poor 
of  the  neighborhood.  Painters  —  Eakins,  Her- 
bert Gilchrist,  Alexander  —  painted  his  portrait ; 
sculptors  made  busts  ;  photographers,  knowing 
that  Heaven  might  never  send  them  another  such 
subject,  photographed  him  until,  as  Whitman 
himself  remarked,  the  very  cameras  were  weary. 
At  first  he  was  occasionally  found  seated  in  a 
chair  on  the  sidewalk  in  front  of  his  house. 
Sometimes  he  would  receive  callers  in  the  front 
room  downstairs,  where  many  unsold  copies  of 
his  books  were  piled.  In  the  later  years  visitors 
were  shown  to  the  large  upper  room,  where  the 
poet  usually  sat  in  a  stout  oak  chair  by  one  of 
the  windows,  a  gray  wolf-skin  flung  over  the 
back  of  the  chair.  Around  him  was  chaos.  The 
dirty  floor  was  littered  with  newspapers  and 
magazines,  articles  of  clothing,  and  bundles  of 
old  letters  and  manuscripts,  most  of  these  care- 
fully tied  up  with  string.  Like  the  true  old  bach- 
elor with  literary  instincts,  Whitman  was  un- 


THE  CAMDEN  BARD  247 

willing  that  these  piles  of  precious  papers  should 
be  interfered  with  by  the  profane  hands  of  a 
house-cleaner.  His  order  rooted  in  disorder  stood, 
and  he  would  usually  poke  around  among  the  de- 
bris with  his  cane  and  fish  out  precisely  what  he 
was  looking  for.  Upon  chairs  and  tables  lay 
more  papers,  shoes,  unwashed  dishes,  and  print- 
ers' proofs.  Trunks  and  boxes  stood  against 
the  wall ;  the  bed  —  very  likely  not  made  up  — 
was  in  the  corner;  firewood  was  thrown  down 
by  the  air-tight,  sheet-iron  stove.  He  had  a  few 
books,  most  of  them  old  friends,  like  that  stout 
edition  of  Walter  Scott  preserved  since  boyhood. 
Here  was  Buckley's  translation  of  Homer,  and 
John  Carlyle's  Dante,  Felton's  Greece,  Ticknor's 
Spanish  Literature,  George  Sand's  Consuelo, 
—  whose  heroine  he  thought  superior  to  any  of 
Shakespeare's,  —  Emerson,  Ossian,  Omar  Khay- 
yam and  Kpictetus,  Shakespeare,  and  a  Bible 
which  he  had  kept  throughout  his  life.  Many 
photographs  of  friends  and  celebrities  were  upon 
the  walls. 

But  nothing  within  the  littered,  low-ceilinged 
room  was  worth  a  glance  compared  with  the 
figure  of  the  bard.  Always  slow  of  movement 
and  calm  in  demeanor,  he  had  now  settled  into 
the  immobility  of  old  age.  His  body  was  mas- 
sive, inert.  His  hands  still  showed  the  clear 
pink  color  of  the  Dutchman.  The  beard  was 


248  WALT  WHITMAN 

white,  concealing  for  the  most  part  the  full,  free 
lines  of  the  throat.  The  face  grew  more  deli- 
cately modeled  with  each  year,  under  the  re- 
fining, spiritualizing  touch  of  time.  The  lips 
were  firm  to  the  last ;  the  heavy-lidded  gray-blue 
eyes,  no  longer  lustrous,  were  patient,  pensive. 
As  the  glistening  white  hair  grew  thin,  that 
wonderful  domed  head  seemed  to  take  on  a  dig- 
nity and  beauty  as  of  some  heroic,  vanished  epoch  ; 
it  was  a  presence  of  such  benignity  and  serenity 
as  the  New  World,  since  Emerson's  passing, 
could  not  elsewhere  show. 

Many  a  pilgrim  came  to  that  grimy  Mickle 
Street  shrine,  much  as  Alcott,  Thoreau,  and 
Emerson  had  journeyed  on  a  like  quest  to  the 
Brooklyn  tenement,  forty  years  before.  Often 
they  came  from  over-seas.  Now  it  was  Henry 
Irving  and  Bram  Stoker ;  admiring,  as  most 
actors  have  admired,  Whitman's  instinct  for  the 
histrionic.  Hither  came  Edmund  Gosse,  Justin 
M'Carthy,  and  Dr.  Johnston  of  Bolton,  who 
have  left  close  memoranda  of  their  impressions ; 
Ernest  Rhys,  H.  R.  Haweis,  and  Edward  Car- 
penter for  his  second  visit.  Sir  Edwin  Arnold 
was  another  guest.  John  Morley  and  Lord 
Houghton  had  come  earlier.  Oscar  Wilde,  too, 
"  a  great  big  splendid  boy,"  had  arrived  in  1882 
in  the  height  of  his  "  aesthetic  "  lecture  season, 
for  a  two-hours'  talk  and  a  milk  punch  with 


THE   CAMDEN   BARD  249 

Whitman,  much  to  the  joy  of  newspaper  hu- 
morists.1 Or  the  caller  might  be  a  tramp,  an 
anarchist,  a  socialist,  a  Japanese  art-student, 
an  enthusiastic  college  girl.  The  old  Washing- 
ton friends  —  Burroughs,  Eldridge,  O'Connor, 
Doyle  —  stopped  over  in  Camden  when  they 
could,  although  this  was  seldom. 

Gradually  a  new  set  of  guardsmen  gathered 
around  the  poet.  William  Sloane  Kennedy,  who 
had  made  Whitman's  acquaintance  in  1880,  while 
working  on  a  Philadelphia  newspaper,  became  a 
frequent  visitor,  and  an  active  correspondent  and 
controversialist  in  his  behalf.2  Other  Phila- 
delphia journalists,  like  Mr.  Talcott  Williams, 
Mr.  Harrison  Morris,  and  Thomas  Donaldson, 
served  Whitman  in  many  ways,  as  did  Mr.  Fran- 
cis Howard  Williams  and  Mr.  R.  Pearsall  Smith. 
A  warm  friendship  sprang  up  between  Whitman 
and  Colonel  "  Bob  "  Ingersoll,  a  big-hearted  law- 
yer and  orator,  famous  in  his  day  as  a  "  skeptic." 
But  the  most  intimate  of  the  new  friends  came 
to  be  Mr.  Horace  Traubel,  a  young  man  who 
had  fallen  under  Whitman's  spell  upon  the  poet's 
first  arrival  in  Camden.  During  Whitman's  last 

1  Helen  Gray  Cone's  "  Narcissus  in  Camden,  "  published  in 
The  Century's  department  of  Bric-a-Brac  in  November,1882, 
was  a  witty  parody  of  the  supposed  conversation  of  two  po- 
seurs. 

2  See  his  Beminiscences  of  Walt  Whitman,  Paisley  and  Lon- 
don, 1896. 


250  WALT  WHITMAN 

years  Mr.  Traubel  was  tireless  in  his  attendance ; 
he  founded  a  Walt  Whitman  Club,  and  after- 
wards the  Walt  Whitman  Fellowship,  as  well  as 
The  Conservator,  a  journal  which  is  devoted 
largely  to  the  Whitman  propaganda.  For  years 
he  kept  a  note-book  in  which  he  set  down  im- 
partially everything  that  fell  from  Whitman's 
lips ;  and  he  has  already  begun  to  publish  these 
conversations.1  Together  with  his  brother-in-law, 
Mr.  Thomas  B.  Harned,  and  Dr.  R.  M.  Bucke, 
Mr.  Traubel  became  Whitman's  literary  execu- 
tor. Students  of  Whitman  will  inevitably  differ 
here  and  there  with  his  biographers  upon  ques- 
tions of  proportion  and  of  taste  ;  but  of  Mr. 
Traubel's  loyal  discipleship  it  is  impossible  to 
speak  too  highly. 

The  external  events  of  Whitman's  closing 
years  were  few.  Many  simple  pleasures  were 
made  possible  for  him  through  the  kindness  of 
the  friends  who  have  already  been  mentioned. 
In  1885,  for  example,  as  his  lameness  increased, 
subscriptions,  limited  to  ten  dollars,  were  asked 
for  the  purchase  of  a  horse  and  buggy.  The 
necessary  amount  was  instantly  made  up.  Flor- 
ence, Barrett,  and  Booth  among  actors,  George 
H.  Boker,  Mr.  Wayne  MacVeagh,  Mr.  Talcott 
Williams,  and  Mr.  Charles  Emory  Smith  among 

i  In  re  Walt  Whitman,  Philadelphia,  1893 ;  With  Walt 
Whitman  in  Camden,  Boston,  1906. 


THE  CAMDEN  BARD  251 

well-known  Philadelphians ;  Mr.  Gilder,  Mr. 
Clemens,  Warner,  Holmes,  Whittier,  and  John 
Boyle  O'Reilly  among  writers  elsewhere,  thus 
testified  their  personal  good-will  for  the  infirm 
poet.1 

On  April  15,  1886,  Talcott  Williams  and 
Thomas  Donaldson  arranged  for  the  delivery 
of  the  Lincoln  lecture  in  the  Chestnut  Street 
opera  house  in  Philadelphia.  There  were  gener- 
ous subscriptions  from  Dr.  Weir  Mitchell,  Mr. 
Furness,  Boker,  and  others,  in  addition  to  the 
sale  of  admission  tickets,  so  that  a  total  of 
nearly  seven  hundred  dollars  was  realized.  Whit- 
man declared  it  "the  biggest  stroke  of  pure 
kindness  and  concrete  help  I  have  ever  re- 
ceived." In  December  the  Pall  Mall  Gazette 
of  London,  upon  a  rumor  that  Whitman  was 
starving,  raised  one  hundred  and  twenty-five 
pounds  for  him,  and  in  the  same  month  Mr.  Syl- 
vester Baxter,  a  Boston  friend,  sought  through 
Congressman  Lovering  to  secure  a  pension  for 
the  poet,  on  the  ground  of  his  services  to  soldiers 
during  the  Civil  War.  The  attempt  was  un- 
successful. 

On  Washington's  Birthday,  1887,  Whitman 
was  greatly  pleased  with  a  reception  in  his 
honor  at  the  Contemporary  Club  of  Philadel- 

2  Many  of  their  letters  are  printed  in  T.  Donaldson's  Walt 
Whitman,  the  Man,  ch.  ix. 


262  WALT  WHITMAN 

phia.  In  the  following  April,  through  the 
efforts  of  R.  Pearsall  Smith  and  J.  H.  Johnston, 
the  New  York  jeweler,  Whitman  read  the  Lin- 
coln lecture  at  the  Madison  Square  Theatre  in 
New  York.  The  audience  included  Mr.  Clemens, 
Bunner,  Stockton,  Mr.  Conway,  John  Hay, 
Edward  Eggleston,  Mr.  St.  Gaudens,  President 
Oilman,  and  many  others.  Lowell  and  Mr. 
Norton,  Mr.  Burroughs,  Mr.  Gilder,  and  Mr. 
Stedman  were  in  boxes.  Mr.  Andrew  Carnegie 
wrote,  enclosing  a  cheque  for  $350  for  a  box : 
"When  the  Pall  Mall  Gazette  raised  a  sub- 
scription for  Mr.  Whitman,  I  felt  triumphant 
democracy  disgraced.  Whitman  is  the  great 
poet  of  America  so  far."  *  He  was  honored 
with  an  evening  reception  at  the  Westminster 
Hotel,  and  was  surprised  at  the  universal  friend- 
liness manifested.  Here  is  a  cheerful  letter2 
about  it  addressed  to  Eldridge,  who  was  now 
settled  in  California : 

328  Mickle  Street 
CAMDEN  NEW  JERSEY  April  21  '87 

Dear  C  W  E  yours  came  this  forenoon,  & 
was  read  &  re-read,  &  dispatched  on  the  round 
to  Kennedy,  John  Burroughs  &  Dr.  Bucke — all 
so  anxious  to  get  definite  news  from  William.3 

1  See  Kennedy's  Reminiscences,  p.  29.  2  Unpublished. 

8  William  O'Connor,  already  suffering  from  a  malady  that 
proved  fatal  in  1889. 


THE   CAMDEN   BARD  253 

It  somehow  seems  the  most  encouraging  yet — 
God  grant  our  dear  friend  may  indeed  get  com- 
plete recovery.  Write  often  as  you  can,  dear 
friend.  With  me  and  my  affairs  no  great  ripple. 
I  am  worldlily  comfortable  &  in  good  physical 
condition  as  usual  of  late.  I  went  on  to  New 
York — was  convoyed  by  my  dear  old  Quaker 
friend  R  Pearsall  Smith,  had  a  success  at  the 
lecture  14th  (netted  600  for  myself.  Andrew 
Carnegie  gave  1350  for  his  box)  — had  a  stun- 
ning reception,  I  think  300  people,  many  ladies, 
that  evng  Westminster  Hotel  —  newspapers 
friendly  everybody  friendly  even  the  authors 
—  and  returned  here  Friday  4pm  train  from 
N.  Y.  in  good  order.  Am  going  over  to  Phila. 
this  pm  to  be  sculped  by  St  Gaudiens  [sic] 
the  N  Y  sculptor  who  has  come  on,  to  do  it. 
Signs  of  spring  rather  late,  but  here.  I  am 
called  to  dinner  (baked  shad) 

WALT  WHITMAN. 

CHARLES  W.  ELDRIDGB 
P.  O.  Box  1705 

Los  Angeles  California. 

In  the  autumn  of  this  year  some  Boston 
friends  raised  a  fund  of  eight  hundred  dollars 
for  Whitman.  "  What  we  want  to  do,"  wrote 
Mark  Twain  in  sending  a  generous  contribution, 
"  is  to  make  the  splendid  old  soul  comfortable." 
In  1888  his  sixty-ninth  birthday  was  celebrated 


254  WALT  WHITMAN 

by  a  reception  and  dinner  at  Mr.  Harned's 
house  in  Camden.  Whitman  was  in  gay  spirits. 
Four  days  later  he  suffered  a  succession  of 
slight  paralytic  shocks.  Dr.  Osier,  who  was 
called  to  attend  him,  was  non-commital ;  but  his 
friends  were  seriously  alarmed.1  A  strong  young 
man  was  engaged  as  his  nurse,  for  he  was  no  long- 
er able  to  move  without  assistance.  The  horse  and 
buggy  were  sold  ;  Whitman  made  a  new  will ; 
and  it  seemed  as  if  the  end  were  drawing  near. 
But  in  spite  of  another  attack  in  November,  his 
wonderful  recuperative  powers  asserted  them- 
selves once  more.  The  winter  dragged  by.  Whit- 
man's letters  and  postal  cards  to  his  friends 
took  on  even  more  than  ever  the  form  of  sick- 
room bulletins.  On  May  9  another  sorrow 
came:  O'Connor  died  in  Washington  after  a 
long  and  painful  illness.  He  was  but  fifty-seven. 
On  May  31,  1889,  Whitman's  seventieth 
birthday  was  celebrated  by  his  friends  and 
neighbors  in  a  public  hall  at  Camden.2  The  list 
of  speakers  and  of  senders  of  congratulatory 
letters  and  telegrams  included  many  of  the  day's 
distinguished  names.  In  April,  1890,  he  read 

1  The  daily  incidents  of  Whitman's  life  between  March  28 
and  July  14,   1888,  are  set  forth  with  great  particularity  in 
Horace  Traubel's  With  Walt  Whitman  in  Camden. 

2  For  a  full  account  of  the  speeches  and  messages  delivered 
at    this  dinner,  see  Camden's  Compliments  to  Walt  Whitman, 
Philadelphia,  1889. 


THE  CAMDEN  BARD  255 

his  Lincoln  lecture  for  the  last  time,  at  the 
Contemporary  Club  rooms,  and  he  was  able,  in 
May,  to  attend  the  birthday  dinner  in  his  honor 
at  Reisser's  restaurant  in  Philadelphia.  Thirty 
persons  were  present,  among  them  Ingersoll,  who 
spoke,  with  even  more  than  his  wonted  eloquence, 
for  forty-five  minutes.  Afterwards,  sitting  oppo- 
site Whitman,  he  held  a  long  discussion  with 
him  on  immortality,  the  orator  finding  no  evi- 
dence for  it,  and  the  poet  asserting  it  with  a 
tenacious  instinct.  Reporters  scribbled  shorthand 
notes  while  the  two  celebrities  debated.  On  Oc- 
tober 21,  1890,  Whitman  made  his  last  public 
appearance,  as  the  guest  of  honor  at  a  lecture 
delivered  for  his  benefit  by  Ingersoll  at  Horti- 
cultural Hall,  Philadelphia.  The  address,  after- 
ward printed  under  the  title  Liberty  in  Liter- 
ature,1 was  an  apologia  for  Whitman's  career. 
The  poet  had  been  wheeled  on  the  stage  in  an 
invalid's  chair,  and  at  the  conclusion  of  Inger- 
soll's  fervid  oratory  the  bard  said  a  few  words 
of  thanks  to  the  audience.  Then  he  was  wheeled 
back  to  a  half-lighted  hotel  dining-room,  where 
he  sat  late  with  Ingersoll,  munching  a  little  bread 
dipped  in  champagne  and  talking  about  Death. 
He  had  never  been  more  picturesque. 

There  was  one  more  birthday  dinner,  cele- 
brated with  many  friends  in  the  Mickle  Street 
i  See  In  Re  Walt  Whitman,  p.  253. 


256  WALT  WHITMAN 

house  on  May  31,  1891.  *  Whitman  was  seventy- 
two.  That  privacy  which  is  the  normal  privilege 
of  old  age  was  one  of  the  many  kinds  of  happi- 
ness which  he  did  not  experience.  Public  inter- 
est in  him  seemed  to  increase,  through  these  last 
years.  Newspapers  found  him  good  "  copy,"  and 
diligent  stenographers  took  down  his  private  as 
well  as  his  public  talk.  He  was  no  longer  able 
to  compose  save  with  the  greatest  difficulty.  Yet 
even  in  his  extreme  feebleness  in  1888,  he  had 
prepared  for  the  press  his  November  Boughs, 
a  miscellaneous  collection  of  verse  and  prose. 
The  poems  are  grouped  under  the  title  "  Sands 
at  Seventy."  None  of  them  are  as  notable  as 
the  prose  piece  "  A  Backward  Glance  o'er 
Travel'd  Roads,"  which  sums  up  his  plans  and 
endeavors  as  a  poet,  and  which  is  now  fitly 
printed  as  an  appendix  to  his  complete  poetical 
works.  Of  the  other  prose  pieces,  the  most  in- 
teresting are  the  sketches  of  Elias  Hicks  and 
George  Fox.  The  narrative  of  Hicks's  life  car- 
ried him  back  to  his  own  earliest  boyhood,  and 
he  found  in  the  "noiseless  silent  ecstasy"  of 
the  Quaker  mystic  and  in  his  distrust  of  all 
religious  organizations,  a  spirit  akin  to  his 
own.  He  writes,  for  example,  to  William 
O'Connor :  — 

1  A  full  stenographic  account  is  given  in  In  Be  Walt  Whit- 
man,  p.  297. 


THE  CAMDEN  BARD  257 

CAMDBN  p.  m.  April  18  '88 

DEAR  W.  O'C. 

Your  kind  good  copious  letter  came  today  & 
has  been  read  and  reread.  Nothing  new  in  the 
monotony  of  my  life  —  I  have  rec'd  a  good  plaster 
bust  of  Elias  Hicks,  (  size  inclined  to  colossal  ) 
wh'  I  have  put  open  in  the  corner  of  my  room  — 
&  I  think  it  does  me  good  —  perhaps  needful 
almost  to  me  —  Elias  at  the  latent  base  was  sen- 
timental-religious like  an  old  Hebrew  mystic  —  & 
though  I  may  have  something  of  that  kind  way 
in  the  rear,  it  is  pretty  far  in  the  rear  &  I  guess 
I  am  mainly  sensitive  to  the  wonderfulness  &  per- 
haps spirituality  of  things  in  their  physical  &  con- 
crete expressions  —  and  have  celebrated  all  that.1 

Very  suggestive,  too,  in  its  revelation  of  Whit- 
man's old-age  estimate  of  spiritual  values,  is  his 
comparison  of  George  Fox  and  Shakespeare. 
George  Fox,  he  declared,  stood  for  the  deepest, 
most  eternal  thought  latent  in  the  human  soul. 
When  the  richest  mere  poetry,  even  Shake- 
speare's, ceases  to  satisfy,  and  all  worldly  or  aes- 
thetic or  even  scientific  values  have  done  their 
office  to  the  human  character,  then  this  over- 
arching thought  of  God  makes  itself  manifest. 
"  Most  neglected  in  life  of  all  humanity's  attri- 
butes, easily  cover 'd  with  crust,  deluded  and 

1  From  an  unpublished  letter. 


258  WALT  WHITMAN 

abused,  rejected,  yet  the  only  certain  source  of 
what  all  are  seeking,  but  few  or  none  find  —  in 
it  I  for  myself  clearly  see  the  first,  the  last,  the 
deepest  depths  and  highest  heights  of  art,  of 
literature  and  of  the  purposes  of  life.  I  say  who- 
ever labors  here,  makes  contributions  here,  or 
best  of  all  sets  an  incarnated  example  here,  of 
life  or  death,  is  dearest  to  humanity  —  remains 
after  the  rest  are  gone.  And  here,  for  these 
purposes,  and  up  to  the  light  that  was  in  him, 
the  man  Elias  Hicks  —  as  the  man  George  Fox 
had  done  years  before  him  —  lived  long,  and 
died,  faithful  in  life,  and  faithful  in  death."  * 

He  had  also  been  able,  in  1888,  to  see  through 
the  press  a  new  edition  in  one  volume  of  his 
Complete  Poems  and  Prose,  and  to  celebrate 
his  seventieth  birthday,  in  1889,  by  an  autograph 
edition  —  the  eighth  —  of  Leaves  of  Grass.  In 
1891  he  issued  a  slender  volume  of  new  poems 
with  the  pathetic  title  Good-Bye,  my  Fancy, 
and  in  the  following  year,  during  his  last  illness, 
he  was  at  work  upon  the  ninth  edition  of  Leaves 
of  Grass  —  the  fourth  of  the  Complete  Works. 
His  final  composition  was  "  A  Thought  of 
Columbus,"  now  published,  like  Tennyson's 
"Crossing  the  Bar,"  at  the  end  of  his  poems.  A 
comparison  of  the  two  pieces  is  curiously  sug- 
gestive. 

1  Prose  Works,  p.  478. 


THE  CAMDEN  BARD  259 

Whitman's  conversations  during  this  final 
period  of  his  life  have  been  put  down  with  com- 
plete —  and  even  pitiless  —  accuracy.  He  was 
never  a  brilliant  talker ;  his  mind  moved  too 
slowly,  and  his  words  were  often  halting,  repeti- 
tious, and  vague.  Endowed  with  plenty  of  phy- 
sical good-nature,  he  had  nevertheless  the  true 
prophet's  lack  of  wit  and  humor  in  speech ;  and 
the  seriousness  with  which  he  took  himself,  from 
first  to  last,  limited  his  conversational  range. 
But  within  his  range  he  was  constantly  saying 
interesting  things.  He  had,  like  most  men  of 
original  powers,  a  vocabulary  of  his  own,  whose 
characteristics  grew  more  marked  with  advan- 
cing age.  Whitman's  was  homely  and  hearty, 
and  sometimes  had  a  flash  of  the  phrase-making 
genius  which  glows  in  his  earlier  verse. 

Of  literature  as  an  art  he  had  but  little  to  say. 
" 1  do  not  value  literature  as  a  profession.  I  feel 
about  literature  what  Grant  did  about  war. 
He  hated  war.  I  hate  literature.  I  am  not  a  lit- 
erary West  Pointer  ;  I  do  not  love  a  literary  man 
as  a  literary  man.  .  .  .  It  is  a  means  to  an  end, 
that  is  all  there  is  to  it."  Like  all  Transcenden- 
talists,  he  tended  to  despise  form  as  compared 
with  substance,  and  though  he  had  meditated 
long  and  practiced  cunningly  upon  rhythmical 
forms,  he  never  talked  that  sort  of  "shop." 
Eloquently  as  he  had  written  in  youth  about  the 


260  WALT  WHITMAN 

function  of  the  great  poet,  his  conversation  re- 
vealed but  a  slender  appreciation  of  the  very 
greatest  of  the  brotherhood.  "  I  don't  care  much 
for  Milton  or  Dante."  He  enjoyed  the  simplicity 
of  Homer,  but  Shakespeare  was  to  him  something 
"  feudal,"  remote,  "  lacking  both  the  democratic 
and  the  spiritual."  Of  Goethe  he  seems  to  have 
known  but  little.  He  spoke  of  Victor  Hugo's 
"  insularity ; "  "I  can't  swallow  Hugo's  exag- 
geration and  bombast."  Coming  from  Whit- 
man, that  verdict  is  odd  enough;  and  his  judg- 
ment of  Dr.  Samuel  Johnson  is  surely  one  of  the 
most  humorous  which  literary  history  records  : 
"  I  don't  admire  the  old  man's  ponderous  arro- 
gance. ...  He  lacks  veracity.  .  .  .  Dr.  Johnson 
is  clearly  not  our  man."  Of  Sir  Walter  Scott 
he  usually  spoke  with  affection.  His  written 
judgments  of  Tennyson  are  shrewd  and  skillful. 
Browning  "  was  not  for  me."  Arnold  he  knew 
—  and  despised  —  as  a  critic  merely.  He  dis- 
missed Stevenson  with  a  coarse  epithet.  He  did 
not  care  for  Swinburne's  poetry,  although  when 
Swinburne,  in  his  reaction  from  earlier  enthu- 
siasm, made  his  famous  attack  upon  Whitman  in 
the  Fortnightly  Review  for  August,  1887,1  the 

1  "  But  Mr.  Whitman's  Eve  is  a  drunken  apple- woman,  in- 
decently sprawling1  in  the  slush  and  garbage  of  the  gutter 
amid  the  rotten  refuse  of  her  overturned  fruit-stall ;  but  Mr. 
Whitman's  Venus  is  a  Hottentot  wench  under  the  influence  of 
cantharides  and  adulterated  rum." 


THE  CAMDEN  BARD  261 

latter  refused  to  answer  it  in  the  North  Amer- 
ican Review,  and  contented  himself  with  saying 
philosophically:  "Ain't  he  the  damndest  sim- 
ulacrum ! " 

Concerning  the  older  generation  of  American 
poets,  —  Bryant,  Emerson,  Longfellow,  Poe, 
Whittier  —  he  had  written  with  a  delicacy  of  dis- 
crimination which  has  already  been  pointed  out. 
Of  Cooper,  too,  he  used  to  speak  with  enthusiasm. 
He  considered  Thoreau  egotistic.  "  Thoreau's 
great  fault  was  disdain  —  disdain  for  men:  in- 
ability to  appreciate  the  average  life."  Toward 
Lowell  he  had  a  "feeling  of  indifference;"  "he 
is  not  likely  to  be  eternally  useful."  It  is  unlikely, 
in  fact,  that  Whitman  had  ever  known  much  of 
Lowell's  work,  for  during  the  eighties  he  told  Mr. 
W.  R.  Thayer,  who  had  just  read  aloud  to  him 
the  Commemoration  Ode,  that  he  "  did  n't  know 
Lowell  w&sa,  critter  "  —  a  favorite  eulogistic  word. 
But  Whitman's  opinion  of  most  of  his  Amer- 
ican literary  contemporaries  was  slighting,  and 
was  obviously  affected  by  their  real  or  imagined 
attitude  towards  his  own  work.  Yet  his  comments 
upon  Mr.  Stedman  and  Mr.  Gilder,  who  had 
shown  him  great  consideration,  make  —  as  re- 
ported by  Mr.  Traubel  —  hardly  more  pleasant 
reading  than  his  offhand  condemnation  of  men 
like  Mr.  Howells,  Mr.  James,  Mr.  Norton,  Mr. 
Aldrich,  Mr.  Cable,  and  many  other  honored 


262  WALT  WHITMAN 

names.  As  his  own  strength  failed,  he  seems  to 
have  grown  increasingly  suspicious  of  some  cabal 
against  him  —  as  when  he  wrote  that  his  enemies 
had  been  plying  Emerson  incessantly,  and  made 
Emerson  afraid  to  speak  out.  This  was  sheer 
pathological  mania  of  persecution.  He  distrusted 
what  he  called  the  "  New  England  crowd,"  "  the 
college  men."  Part  of  this  was  due  to  the  old 
antagonism  of  Poe's  day  between  Boston  on  the 
one  side  and  New  York  and  Philadelphia  on 
the  other ;  part  of  it  was  due  to  a  feeling  which 
many  of  Whitman's  later  associates  shared,  that 
the  cultivated,  college-bred  person  was  out  of 
touch  with  the  real  forces  of  American  life. 
Whitman  was  puzzled  and  irritated  by  the  aca- 
demic temper.  Professor  Corson  of  Cornell,  for 
example,  called  upon  him  and  wrote  him  some 
cordial  letters.  "Corson  seems  to  have  signal 
abilities  "  —  said  Whitman  —  "  accepts  me  in  a 
general  way,  without  vehemence.  ...  I  think 
Corson  is  judicial  —  probably  that  is  what  ails 
him.  I  like  the  outright  person  —  the  hater,  the 
lover  —  the  unmistakable  yes  or  no.  .  .  .  The 
scholar  swells  rarely  —  I  may  say  never  —  let 
themselves  go." 

Precisely  here  was  the  old  Romanticist's 
quarrel  with  Mr.  Stedman's  essays,  Mr.  Gil- 
der's poetry,  Arnold's  criticisms,  Booth's  act- 
ing :  they  did  not  "  let  themselves  go."  Ha 


THE  CAMDEN   BARD  263 

cried  for  inspiration,  intoxication  of  the  whirl- 
ing dervish  kind,  like  those  remembered  fren- 
zies that  had  gone  to  the  making  of  Leaves  of 
Grass.  Failing  to  find  this  in  his  contempo- 
raries, he  fell  back  upon  himself,  with  a  good 
word  for  Ingersoll,  O'Connor,  Symonds,  Ken- 
nedy, or  other  "loyal  guardsmen."  In  view  of 
his  naturally  great  powers,  his  intellectual  arro- 
gance is  more  easily  to  be  pardoned  than  the 
morbid  vanity  which  led  him  to  rank  his  con- 
temporaries according  to  their  opinion  of  Leaves 
of  Grass,  thus  forming  an  "  our  crowd  "  and  a 
"  not  our  crowd."  But  it  should  be  remembered 
that  by  1888  he  was  an  old  man,  and  that  the 
close  atmosphere  of  a  cult  is  not  healthful  for 
anybody.  Neither  Luther,  Dr.  Johnson,  nor 
Goethe  —  whose  table  talk  we  know,  and  all 
of  whom  were  men  of  far  stronger  character 
than  Whitman  —  could  have  passed  unharmed 
through  a  Camden  apotheosis. 

The  great  mass  of  Whitman's  recorded  con- 
versations is  devoted  to  personal  and  literary 
topics.  His  callers  naturally  asked  him  about 
himself  and  about  certain  books.  He  touched 
occasionally,  of  course,  upon  the  other  enduring 
themes  of  human  intercourse.  Like  most  of  the 
American  men  of  letters,  he  knew  but  little  of 
art,  either  pictorial  or  plastic,  though  during 
the  last  ten  years  of  his  life  he  had  much  hap- 


264  WALT  WHITMAN 

piness  in  thinking  of  J.  F.  Millet's  paintings, 
which  he  had  seen  in  Boston.  In  the  appre- 
ciation of  music,  he  did  not  pass  beyond  the 
Italian  opera  composers  whom  he  had  loved  in 
boyhood.  Wagner  —  between  whose  "  music  of 
the  future  "  and  his  own  poetry  so  many  com- 
parisons have  been  drawn  —  made  little  im- 
pression upon  him.  Toward  the  progress  of 
science,  however,  Whitman  was  wonderfully  re- 
ceptive. Without  any  of  the  traits  that  charac- 
terize the  scientific  mind  as  such,  he  possessed, 
as  fully  as  Goethe  or  Tennyson,  an  instinctive 
comprehension  of  the  larger  results  of  the  sci- 
entific movement,  and  particularly  of  the  impli- 
cations of  evolution.  He  liked  to  talk  about 
such  things,  in  a  large,  vague  way,  as  befits 
a  poet. 

He  loved  also  to  brood  upon  the  teachings  of 
German  philosophy.  Even  in  his  early  manhood 
he  had  projected  a  course  of  Sunday  evening 
lectures  upon  Kant,  Fichte,  Schelling,  and  Hegel. 
The  misty  grandiose  outlines  of  the  Hegelian 
philosophy  were  particularly  congenial  to  him. 
But  he  knew  no  word  of  German,  and  could  never 
have  made  himself  over  into  a  systematic  thinker. 
What  attracted  him  was  merely  the  desultory, 
second-hand  "  gossip  of  philosophy,"  and  it  has 
hitherto  proved  impossible  for  any  student  of 
that  subject  to  extract  from  Whitman's  writings 


THE  CAMDEN  BARD  265 

and  conversations  upon  it  anything  approaching 
a  coherent  scheme.  Thiers  once  said  of  Louis 
Napoleon  that  he  was  unable  to  distinguish  be- 
tween the  two  verbs  rever  and  reflechir.  By  this 
rule,  Whitman's  philosophizing  was  only  a  sort 
of  somnambulism. 

Religion  was  frequently  the  theme  of  Whit- 
man's conversation,  as  of  his  verse.  Unquestion- 
ably he  was  a  man  of  deep  primitive  religious 
instincts.  Like  most  poets,  he  distrusted  formal 
organizations  of  creed  or  ritual.  One  of  the  par- 
tially illegible  entries  in  his  early  notes  is  this  : 
"  Boldly  assume  that  all  the  usual  priests  .  .  .  etc. 
are  infidels,  and  the  .  .  .  are  Faithful  Believers." 
No  device  of  your  Wanton  Gospeller  is  quite  so 
old  as  that !  Bat  the  precise  type  of  Whitman's 
religion  escapes  classification.  "I  am  as  much 
Buddhist  as  Christian,  as  much  Mohammedan 
as  Buddhist,  as  much  nothing  as  something." 
It  was  non-Christian  rather  than  un-Christian. 
Though  there  was  much  in  his  life  as  in  his  poe- 
try that  is  in  true  accord  with  the  ethical  teach- 
ings of  Jesus,  there  is  little  evidence  that  Whit- 
man ever  consciously  apprehended  or  sympathized 
with  the  distinctive  doctrines  of  Christianity. 
He  said  to  Dr.  Bucke  in  1880  :  "  I  have  never 
had  any  particular  religious  experiences  —  never 
felt  that  I  needed  to  be  saved  —  never  felt  the 
need  of  spiritual  regeneration  —  never  had  any 


266  WALT   WHITMAN 

fear  of  hell,  or  distrust  of  the  scheme  of  the 
universe.  I  always  felt  that  it  was  perfectly  right 
and  for  the  best."  Emerson  would  doubtless  have 
borne  virtually  similar  testimony.  Though  more 
profound  on  its  imaginative  side,  Whitman's  re- 
ligion resembles  the  sentimental  Deism  of  the 
eighteenth  century,  as  exemplified  in  the  famous 
Savoyard  Vicar  of  Rousseau.  But  as  regards 
the  churches  and  preachers  of  his  day,  Whitman's 
attitude  was  that  of  Voltaire  rather  than  that  of 
Jean  Jacques.  It  was  the  inherited  antipathy  of 
his  Long  Island  boyhood,  maintained  throughout 
his  life.  In  his  youthful  notebook  he  remarks 
that "  the  Bible  is  now  exhausted,"  and  speaks  of 
"the  castrated  goodness  of  schools  and  churches." 
As  an  old  man  he  was  still  irritated  by  "  parsons 
and  the  police  ;  "  he  slammed  his  windows  tight 
on  Sunday,  to  keep  out  the  sound  of  the  bells  and 
choir  of  a  neighboring  church.  "  I  always  mistrust 
a  deacon ;  his  standard  is  low.  .  .  .  The  whole 
ideal  of  the  church  is  low,  loathsome,  horrible." 
He  was  in  full  sympathy  with  the  doughty 
i4  Bob  "  Ingersoll's  anti-Christian  crusade  :  "  It 
loes  seem  as  if  Ingersoll  and  Huxley  without 
any  others  could  unhorse  the  whole  Christian 
giant."  He  dreamed  that  a  new  and  better 
religion  would  reveal  itself  to  humanity,  a  reli- 
gion of  a  truer  brotherhood  and  comradeship 
than  the  world  has  yet  known,  and  he  believed 


THE  CAMDEN  BARD  267 

that  Leaves  of  Grass,  the  herald  of  the  new 
gospel,  was  "the  most  religious  book  among 
books,  crammed  full  of  faith."  Byron,  it  will 
be  remembered,  said  much  the  same  thing  about 
Don  Juan.  Whitman's  attitude  toward  the  un- 
seen world  was  always  deeply  reverent;  like 
most  of  the  mystics,  he  felt  himself  immortal, 
and  none  of  the  world's  poets  have  written 
more  majestically  and  nobly  about  death  and 
the  soul.1  As  he  iieared  his  own  end,  he  gave 
repeated  expression  to  his  sense  of  the  evan- 
escence of  those  material  things  which  he  had 
once  chanted  so  robustly.  When  the  German 
Emperor  lay  dying  with  cancer  of  the  throat  in 
1888,  Whitman  exclaimed :  "  Lay  not  your 
treasures  up  upon  the  earth!  God  knows!  no 
one  ever  heard  me  preach  against  life  —  its  final 
joyous  realities:  yet  the  physical  ingredients 
of  life,  the  things  we  often  set  the  most  store 
by,  are  perishable,  perishable,  perishable  !  We 
have  them  in  our  hands !  It  all  comes  on  such 
fast  feet !  I  do  not  say  all  is  vanity :  I  only  say 
certain  things  are  vain.  I  have  seemed  to  enter 
into  the  tragedy  of  Unser  Fritz  —  to  have  felt 
the  flame  of  the  fire  that  is  consuming  him." 
It  is  for  such  utterances  as  these  that  his 

1  See  the  admirable  collection  of  his  utterances  on  these 
subjects,  entitled  The  Boole  of  Heavenly  Death,  edited  by 
Horace  Traubel.  Portland,  Mosher,  1906. 


268  WALT  WHITMAN 

daily  talk  will  be  read ;  and  not  for  any  concrete 
wisdom  about  politics  or  human  society.  Radi- 
cals and  conservatives,  anarchists  and  social- 
ists alike  have  found  comfortable  doctrine  in 
his  conversations  as  in  his  books.  He  was  a 
stalwart  Free  Trader,  for  example,  on  grounds 
transcending  party  advantage  or  even  consider- 
ations of  national  prosperity.  He  was  not  afraid 
of  the  logical  consequences  of  his  doctrine  of 
the  essential  brotherhood  of  all  men.  There 
was  no  better  Internationalist.  No  man  spoke 
more  strongly  concerning  the  corruption  that 
flourished  in  our  political  life  after  the  close  of 
the  Civil  War.  But  the  fact  remains  that  his 
manner  of  life  had  left  him  ignorant  of  many 
of  the  vital  forces  of  his  own  day.  Wholly  aside 
from  his  long  invalidism,  he  was  too  self-cen- 
tred in  his  later  years  to  be  aware  of  what  was 
actually  going  on  around  him.  "  Give  those 
boys  a  chance,"  he  said  to  Dr.  Johnston  of 
Bolton,  concerning  some  urchins  who  were  swim- 
ming in  the  Delaware  River,  "  and  they  would 
develop  the  heroic  and  manly,  but  they  will  be 
spoiled  by  civilization,  religion  and  the  dam- 
nable conventions.  Their  parents  will  want  them 
to  grow  up  genteel."  This  was  to  misunder- 
stand both  the  parents  and  the  boys.  In  such 
respects  Whittier  knew  the  American  people 
much  better  than  Whitman. 


THE  CAMDEN  BARD  269 

Indeed  many  of  Whitman's  contemporaries 
had  a  far  more  accurate  knowledge  than  he  con- 
cerning the  significant  social,  educational,  and 
political  movements  of  the  day.  Mr.  Clemens 
and  Mr.  Stedman,  for  example,  or  John  Hay 
and  George  William  Curtis,  have  had  a  truer 
perception  of  American  life  as  a  whole.  Like 
many  Bohemians,  Whitman  was  unaware  that 
his  quest  for  a  fuller,  freer  life  had  in  reality 
closed  more  doors  of  human  experience  than  it 
had  opened.  He  was  a  gifted  spectator,  but  he 
could  not  quite  understand  some  of  the  men  who 
flung  themselves  into  the  struggle  which  he  was 
merely  watching.  He  was  incapable  of  estimating 
such  contemporary  work  as  was  done  by  Curtis 
for  decency  in  politics,  by  President  Eliot  for 
reality  in  education,  and  by  Phillips  Brooks  for 
spirituality  in  religion.  Such  men  were  "  gentle- 
men," and  Whitman  seemed  irritated  by  the 
fact  that  the  gentleman  may  preserve  every 
valuable  trait  of  the  man,  and  add  thereto ;  that 
the  gentleman,  in  short,  is  the  better  product. 
In  such  ways  did  the  "free  old  hawk"  pay 
the  penalty  of  his  detachment.  Wide  human 
wisdom,  many-sided  contact  with  a  ripened  civil- 
ization, or  even  the  intimate  joys  and  sorrows  of 
the  home,  as  they  are  revealed  in  such  books  as 
Lockhart's  Scott  or  Sir  Walter's  own  Journal^ 
are  not  to  be  looked  for  in  the  Bard  of  Cainden. 


270  WALT  WHITMAN 

He  was,  rather,  at  his  best,  like  Montaigne 
and  all  the  great  literary  egotists,  when  he  was 
talking  about  himself.  To  the  very  close,  in 
spite  of  actual  suffering  and  the  more  trying 
strain  of  twenty  years  of  invalidism,  he  kept  up 
good  heart.  His  faith  in  the  permanence  of  his 
own  work  rarely  wavered.  He  said  late  in  life 
to  Professor  G.  H.  Palmer :  "  There  are  things 
in  Leaves  of  Grass  which  I  would  no  sooner 
write  now  than  cut  off  my  right  hand,  but  I  am 
glad  I  printed  them."  About  six  months  be- 
fore his  death  he  told  Mr.  W.  R.  Thayer  that 
he  had  been  reading  over  Leaves  of  Grass; 
"  and  for  the  first  time,"  he  said,  "  I  have  had  a 
doubt  as  to  whether  that  book  will  live."  But 
such  moods  were  fortunately  transient.  Of  his 
earliest  life  he  spoke  little.  In  1880,  talking 
with  Dr.  Bucke,  he  alluded  to  the  fact  of  his  not 
marrying :  "  I  had  an  instinct  against  forming 
ties  that  would  bind  me."  To  Mr.  Talcott  Wil- 
liams, however,  he  remarked :  "  I  once  thought 
wedlock  not  needful  to  my  development,  but  now 
I  think  it  would  have  been  better  for  me."  The 
secretiveness  which  lurked  deep  in  him  lasted  to 
the  close.  Many  friends  who  contributed,  out  of 
slender  means,  towards  providing  the  comforts 
necessary  for  an  aged  man,  seriously  ill,  were 
surprised  to  find  that  in  1891  he  had  spent 
nearly  $4000  upon  a  massive  tomb  in  Harleigh 


THE  CAMDEN  BARD  271 

Cemetery,  and  that  during  his  last  illness,  when 
he  was  supposed  to  be  penniless,  he  had  several 
thousand  dollars  in  the  bank.1 

Almost  insensibly  his  long  years  of  invalid  ism 
lapsed  into  a  final  period  of  swifter  dissolution. 
In  December,  1891,  pneumonia  set  in,  and  a 
general  breaking-up  followed.  But  he  lingered 
until  the  26th  of  March,  much  of  the  time  in 
great  pain.  Then,  very  quietly  at  the  last,  in  the 
darkening  close  of  a  soft,  rainy  Saturday  after- 
noon, he  slipped  away.  Upon  the  following 
Wednesday  he  was  buried  in  the  tomb  he  had 
built  for  himself  in  Harleigh  Cemetery.  During 
the  middle  of  the  day  thousands  of  people 
streamed  through  the  Mickle  Street  house  to 
look  for  the  last  time  upon  Whitman's  wonder- 
ful face.  His  friends  thought  it  inappropriate 
that  the  funeral  services  should  be  conducted 
by  a  Christian  minister.  The  ceremonies,  which 
were  held  under  a  tent  near  the  tomb,  in  the 
presence  of  a  great  company,  consisted  of  read- 
ings by  Mr.  Francis  Howard  Williams  from 
Whitman,  Confucius,  Gautama,  Jesus,  the  Ko- 
ran, Isaiah,  St.  John,  the  Zend  Avesta,  and 
Plato,  together  with  affectionate  tributes  spoken 
by  Mr.  Thomas  B.  Harned,  D.  G.  Brinton,  Dr. 
Bucke,  and  Robert  G.  Ingersoll.  Mr.  Aldrich, 
Mr.  Stedman,  and  Mr.  Gilder  sent  wreaths  of 
ivy  and  laurel  for  the  coffin.  Other  well-known 

1  See  Appendix. 


272  WALT  WHITMAN 

men  of  letters,  with  Camden  and  Philadelphia 
friends,  acted  as  pall-bearers.  The  day,  which 
had  been  overcast,  proved  fair  and  mild ;  the 
first  bluebirds  sang  while  the  strange  ceremony 
proceeded.  Peter  Doyle  sat  on  the  grassy  slope 
outside  the  tent,  not  listening  to  the  oratory. 
Peanut  venders  moved  among  the  outskirts  of 
the  crowd.  It  was  a  Camden  holiday.  But  Whit- 
man's disciples  were  profoundly  moved.  "  We 
are  at  the  summit,"  said  one.  "  I  felt  as  if  I 
had  been  at  the  entombment  of  Christ,"  wrote 
another.  Others  thought,  perhaps  remembering 
the  poet's  own  serene  conviction  of  immortality, 
that  he  really  was  not  dead  at  all,  and  that  in 
some  new  guise  he  would  come  again.  For  such 
as  these  the  spell  woven  by  Whitman's  unique 
personality  was  unbroken  by  his  bodily  death. 


CHAPTER  VII 

AFTER  FIFTY  YEARS 

"  My  book  [Peer  Gynt]  is  poetry ;  and  if  it  is  not,  then  it  will 
be.  The  conception  of  poetry  in  our  country,  in  Norway,  shall 
be  made  to  conform  to  the  book."  —  IBSEN  to  Bjornson,  De- 
cember 9,  1857. 

"  The  only  poetry  that,  in  the  long  run,  '  humanity  will  not 
willingly  let  die '  is  that  which  contains  not  mere  variations 
on  the  old  themes,  but  '  things  unattempted  yet  in  prose  or 
rhyme.'"  —  EDWARD  CAIRO,  Essay  on  Wordsworth. 

"  To-day,  in  books,  in  the  rivalry  of  writers,  especially  nov- 
elists, success  (so-called)  is  for  him  or  her  who  strikes  the 
mean  flat  average,  the  sensational  appetite  for  stimulus,  inci- 
dent, persiflage,  etc.,  and  depicts,  to  the  common  caliber,  sen- 
sual, exterior  life.  To  such,  or  the  luckiest  of  them,  as  we  see, 
the  audiences  are  limitless  and  profitable;  but  they  cease 
presently.  While  this  day,  or  any  day,  to  workmen  portraying 
interior  or  spiritual  life,  the  audiences  were  limited,  and  often 
laggard  —  but  they  last  forever."  —  WALT  WHITMAN,  Demo- 
cratic Vistas. 

IT  is  already  more  than  half  a  century  since 
the  publication  of  the  first  edition  of  Leaves  of 
Grass.  In  the  history  of  world-literature,  fifty 
years  is  but  an  insignificant  space.  In  the  his- 
tory of  American  letters  it  is  a  long  period,  al- 


274  WALT  WHITMAN 

though  during  that  interval,  singularly  enough, 
no  new  name  has  by  common  consent  been  ad- 
judged worthy  to  stand  with  those  of  Emerson, 
Hawthorne,  Longfellow,  Poe,  and  other  writers, 
all  of  whom  had  produced  mature  work  before 
1855.  The  period  has  been  marked,  however, 
by  extraordinary  intellectual  and  material 
changes,  and  there  has  been  a  constant,  if  un- 
conscious, shifting  of  literary  perspectives.  New 
questions  have  arisen,  and  some  of  the  old  ques- 
tions have  altered  in  significance.  Although 
Leaves  of  Grass  is  in  its  essence  one  of  those 
profoundly  imaginative  books  which  cannot  be 
comprehended  except  through  the  responding 
imagination  of  the  reader,  one  may  nevertheless 
perceive  its  drift  more  clearly  than  was  possible 
a  half  century  ago. 

Its  author  attempted,  as  we  now  know,  to  por- 
tray the  emotions  of  a  representative  man  in 
an  age  of  science  and  democracy.  In  the  very 
formality  and  comprehensiveness  of  this  effort 
there  lurked  a  danger,  —  the  danger  which  Bal- 
zac encountered  in  the  Oomedie  Humaine  and 
Zola  in  his  jRougon-Macquart  series  of  novels. 
Such  a  task  transcends,  in  truth,  the  imagina- 
tive power  of  any  one  artist.  Mr.  Swinburne, 
writing  in  187 2, l  —  after  the  first  rapture  of 
his  discovery  of  Whitman  was  over,  and  before 

1  In  Under  the  Microscope. 


AFTER  FIFTY  YEARS  275 

the  revulsion  betrayed  in  his  Fortnightly  Re- 
view article  began,  —  said  very  keenly :  "  There 
are  in  him  two  distinct  men  of  most  inharmo- 
nious kinds ;  a  poet  and  a  formalist.  .  .  .  Never 
before  was  high  poetry  so  puddled  and  adul- 
terated with  mere  doctrine  in  its  crudest  form. 
...  It  is  when  he  is  thinking  of  his  part,  of 
the  duties  and  properties  of  a  representative 
poet,  an  official  democrat,  that  the  strength 
forsakes  his  hand  and  the  music  ceases  at  his 
lips."  But  this  very  alloy  in  Whitman's  work 
makes  the  difficult  business  of  analysis  some- 
what more  easy.  The  development  of  science 
and  the  world-wide  spread  of  democracy  are  the 
two  most  striking  tendencies  of  the  last  half- 
century.  They  compel  attention,  whether  one 
will  or  no,  and  they  have  increasingly  forced  the 
literary  world  to  take  account  of  a  man  who  as- 
sumed the  gigantic  role  of  speaking  in  poetry  for 
both  science  and  democracy.  Whatever  the  ver- 
dict upon  Whitman's  performance,  it  is  apparent 
that  he  has  great  allies ;  that  his  writings  were 
in  accord  with  some  of  the  most  profound  world- 
movements  of  his  day.  No  critic  who  endeavors 
seriously  to  assess  the  spiritual  forces  that  are 
shaping  our  contemporary  life  can  overlook 
Whitman's  contribution.  Even  those  judges  who 
deny  him  the  name  of  poet  have  often  admitted 
that  there  is  no  American  writer  more  likely  to 


276  WALT  WHITMAN 

be  reexamined,  from    time  to  time,  by  future 
historians  of  literature. 

Without  entering,  however,  upon  the  uncertain 
territory  of  the  future,  it  is  already  clear  that 
Whitman  stood  in  certain  well-defined  relations 
to  the  thought  and  the  literature  of  jbhe  past.  In 
the  instinctive  operations  of  his  mind  he  was  a 
Mystic,  —  one  of  the  persons  who  in  every  age 
and  in  every  variety  of  formal  religious  faith 
have  been  innately  and  intensely  conscious  of  the 
reality  of  spiritual  things.  In  his  capacity  for 
brooding  imaginative  ecstasy  he  was  Oriental 
rather  than  Western.  Deep  affinities  allied  him 
with  the  oldest  literatures  of  our  Indo-European 
race ;  his  own  poetical  style  was  formed  largely 
upon  that  of  the  Old  Testament :  he  read  Hindu 
and  Persian  poets  in  the  best  translations  avail- 
able, carried  Alger's  Oriental  Poetry  to  the 
Washington  hospitals  to  read  to  wounded  sol- 
diers, and  made  many  notes,  it  is  said,  in  his 
own  copy  of  the  Bhagavad-  Gita.1  His  fondness 

1  Emerson  once  remarked  smilingly  to  F.  B.  Sanborn  that 
Leaves  of  Grass  was  a  combination  of  the  Bhagavad-Gita  and 
the  New  York  Herald.  Compare,  for  example,  Whitman's 
well  known  use  of  the  communal  "  I "  with  Krishna's  speech 
in  the  ninth  chapter  of  the  Bhagavad-Gita :  "  I  (ego)  who  am 
present  everywhere  in  divers  forms.  I  am  the  immolation.  I 
am  the  whole  sacrificial  rite.  I  am  the  libation  offered  to  an- 
cestors. I  am  the  drug.  I  am  the  incantation.  I  am  the  sacri- 
ficial butter  also.  I  am  the  fire.  I  am  the  incense.  I  am  the 
father,  the  mother,  the  sustainer,  the  grandfather  of  the  uui- 


AFTER  FIFTY  YEARS  277 

for  naming  himself  in  his  verse,  his  dervish-like 
passion  for  the  endless  Open  Road,  and  even  his 
catalogue  method,  have  been  noted  as  having  sin- 
gularly close  parallels  in  the  poetry  of  the  East. 
Whitman's  European  kinship  was  with  the 
Romanticists.  That  stout  volume  of  Sir  Walter 
Scott,  it  will  be  remembered,  was  his  "inex- 
haustible mine  and  treasury  for  more  than  fifty 
years."  Few  of  the  spiritual  children  of  Rous- 
seau, whether  upon  the  Continent  or  in  England, 
have  borne  so  striking  a  resemblance  to  their 
parent.  Whitman  read  Rousseau  early,  and 
planned  a  poem  about  him,  although  he  never 
wrote  it.  Both  men  were  sentimentalists,  by 
nature  sensuous  and  egotistic.  Both  were  rhap- 
sodists,  uttering  wonderfully  fine  things  about 
nature,  education,  religion.  Each  had  the  true 
mystic's  incapacity  for  exact  thought,  joined 
with  an  intuitive  perception  of  some  very  vital 

verse  —  the  mystic  doctrine,  the  purification,  the  syllable 
'  Om ! '  "  etc,  etc.  Or  again,  in  the  tenth  chapter :  "  Know  that 
among  horses  I  am  Uchchaishshravasa,  sprung  from  ambrosia ; 
Airavata  among  elephants,  and  among  men,  the  King.  .  . 
And  I  am  the  procreator,  Kandarpa.  Among  serpents,  I  am 
Vasuki.  ...  I  am  the  Ganges  among  rivers.  ...  I  am  also 
eternal  time.  .  .  .  And  I  am  Death,  who  seizes  all,  and  the 
Birth  of  those  who  are  to  be.  ...  I  am  the  game  of  dice 
among  things  which  deceive  ;  splendor  itself  among  splendid 
things.  ...  I  have  established,  and  continue  to  establish  all 
the  universe  by  one  portion  of  myself." 

Translation  of  J.  C.  Thomson,  Hertford,  England,  1855. 


278  WALT  WHITMAN 

truths.  They  were  alike  in  their  earnestness  as 
in  their  morbid  self-consciousness.  Each  experi- 
enced a  "revelation"  which  altered  the  whole 
aspect  of  life,  the  transparent  summer  morning 
described  in  Leaves  of  Grass  being  as  epoch- 
making  for  Whitman,  as  was  that  hot  walk  of 
Rousseau  to  Vincennes  in  1749,  when,  meditat- 
ing on  the  question  proposed  by  the  Academy  of 
Dijon  for  a  prize  essay,  he  suddenly  "  saw  an- 
other world  and  became  a  new  man."  Whitman 
had  the  sounder  body  and  the  more  normal  mind, 
yet  both  men  shared  a  suspicion  of  the  cultivated 
world  into  which  they  were  not  born,  a  hatred  of 
restraint,  a  sort  of  nomadic  irresponsibility.  Some 
Ishmaelite  of  an  ancestor  transmitted  to  them 
a  strain  of  the  tramp,  if  not  of  the  dead-beat. 
The  curious-minded  may  trace  these  personal 
likenesses  into  such  details  as  their  common  pas- 
sion for  music,  for  fastidious  cleanliness  of  body, 
and  even  for  carefully  selected  shirts.  Each  man 
wrote  superbly  about  paternity,  although  neither 
man,  as  far  as  is  now  known,  ever  acknowledged 
or  supported  the  children  which  he  says  were 
born  to  him.1 

In  their  writings,  too,  as  in  their  lives,  they 
plucked  at  the  same  vibrating,  plangent  strings. 
"Back  to  nature"  was  the  burden  of  their 
chant ;  back  to  the  "  natural  man,"  to  the  ego 
stripped  of  all  artificial  and  social  disguises.  To 

1  bee  Appendix. 


AFTER  FIFTY  YEARS  279 

their  common  "  culte  du  moi  "  both  Rousseau 
and  Whitman  brought  an  enthusiasm,  an  ex- 
altation, a  sort  of  inwardness,  which  not  only 
placed  them  among  the  foremost  of  literary 
autobiographers,  but  has  given  them  a  passionate 
personal  following.  Those  sinuous,  lambent  prose 
sentences  of  Rousseau  have  their  counterpart  ii 
the  flowing  rhythms  of  Whitman's  verse.  Eacl 
of  them  wrote  like  a  true  "  orator,"  -  —  to  use 
Blake's  term,  —  with  an  ear  tuned  to  the  larger 
effects,  and  chiefly  regardful  of  sonority,  color, 
and  movement.  Both  composed  slowly  and  with 
difficulty,  but  with  an  inner  heat  that  fused  the 
stubborn  words  until  they  flowed  at  last  in  glow- 
ing eloquence.  Both  might  well  declare,  like 
their  kinsman  Byron,  "  description  is  my  forte." 
Yet  it  is  to  their  enduring  honor  that  they  de- 
scribed, not  merely  the  picturesque  and  sublime 
in  external  Nature,  and  the  haughtiness  or 
shamelessness  of  their  own  selves,  but  also  the 
sensations  and  emotions  of  the  great  multitude 
of  common  men.  Whitman's  collected  poems 
now  begin  with  the  lines : 

"  One's  self  I  sing,  a  simple  separate  person 

Yet  utter  the  word  Democratic,  the  word  En-Masse." 

The  literary  ancestry  of  both  of  these  lines 
runs  straight  to  Jean  Jacques.  The  first  recalls 
the  Rousseau  of  the  Confessions  as  depicted  in 
its  celebrated  opening  passage ;  the  second  line 


280  WALT  WHITMAN 

of  Whitman's  two-fold  theme  gives  us  the  Rous- 
seau of  the  Contrat  Social.  There,  for  the 
first  time  in  Europe  with  anything  like  equal 
power,  was  the  vision  of  the  vast  masses  of  Eu- 
ropean society,  the  millions  who  tilled  the  fields 
and  filled  the  battle-trenches.  It  is  the  reality  of 
this  illimitable  background  which  vitalizes  the 
fantastic  theory  of  origins  which  the  Contrat  So- 
cial sets  forth.  The  invented  history  and  econom- 
ics and  philosophy  of  that  famous  treatise  are  ab- 
surdly wrong :  yet  it  re-made  European  politics  by 
means  of  its  passionate  feeling  for  the  labor  and 
sorrow  and  gladness  of  the  people  as  a  whole. 
Whitman's  imaginative  vision  of  the  body  poli- 
tic was  equally  real,  equally  sympathetic.  "Plow- 
ing up  in  earnest  the  interminable  average 
fallows  of  humanity  —  not  good  government 
merely,  in  the  common  sense  —  is  the  justifica- 
tion and  main  purpose  of  these  United  States." 
The  difference  between  the  two  seers  was  that 
Rousseau,  with  a  scanty  faith  in  human  im- 
provement, put  the  golden  age  behind  us,  whereas 
Whitman,  writing  after  a  century  of  democratic 
change  and  scientific  advance,  was  prophet  enough 
to  see  that  the  true  harvest  from  the  intermin- 
able fallows  lies  yet  in  the  future. 

Being  thus  a  Mystic  by  temperament  and  a 
Romanticist  by  literary  kinship,  Whitman  came 
to  intellectual  maturity,  as  we  have  seen,  in  the 


AFTER  FIFTY  YEARS  281 

period  of  American  Transcendentalism.  Both  the 
mysticism  of  the  Orient,  and  the  extremer  forms 
of  German  and  English  romanticism,  found  con- 
genial soil  in  Concord  and  Cambridge,  in  Phil- 
adelphia and  New  York.  The  periodical  literature 
of  the  forties  was  Whitman's  only  university,  so 
far  as  intellectual  stimulus  was  concerned.  To  the 
twentieth  century  reader,  many  aspects  of  this 
literature  seem  as  fantastic  as  anything  in  Leaves 
of  Grass.  Margaret  Fuller's  Dial,  the  Fourierite 
and  perfectionist  journals,  even  the  files  of  Fra- 
ser's  and  Blackwood' 's,  contain  the  extremest 
assertion  of  unchecked  individualism,  and  a  total 
disregard  of  conventional  forms.  u  Natural-super- 
naturalism  "  was  in  the  air,  and  the  impulse  was 
to  strip  off  shams  and  clothes  together  —  all 
the  hampering  garments  of  civilization  —  and 
to  leave  the  "  natural  man  "  free.  To  appreciate 
Leaves  of  Grass  as  a  product  —  although,  as 
has  been  pointed  out  in  an  earlier  chapter,  a 
belated  product  —  of  Transcendentalism,  one 
should  read  it,  not  after  a  course  in  Nietzsche 
and  Ibsen,  much  as  they  enforce  and  illuminate 
its  teaching  from  various  points  of  view,  but 
after  Carlyle's  Sartor  Resartus  and  Emerson's 
Essays  and  Thoreau's  Journal.  Its  eccentrici- 
ties, like  its  nobleness,  are  a  part  of  the  sanscu- 
lottism  and  the  exaltation  of  the  time. 

It   should  not   be   forgotten,   however,   that 


282  WALT  WHITMAN 

Leaves  of  Grass,  so  far  as  it  has  been  read  at 
all  by  the  American  public,  has  been  read  by  two 
generations  which  have  not  troubled  themselves 
about  its  Transcendental  origins  and  affinities. 
In  the  ten  years  following  the  Civil  War,  when 
Whitman's  fame  was  growing  rapidly  abroad, 
and  far  more  slowly  in  his  own  country,  the  lit- 
erature of  the  forties  already  seemed  remote. 
The  readers  who  glanced  at  Leaves  of  Grass 
—  and  most  readers  have  done  so  at  one  time  or 
another — received  a  shock,  not  so  much  from  its 
Transcendental  individualism,  as  from  its  evi- 
dent strangeness  of  form  and  its  naturalistic 
dealing  with  sex.  These  have  been  the  two  chief 
obstacles  to  the  popular  acceptance  of  Whitman's 
work.  In  connection  with  each  of  them,  the 
years  have  gradually  brought  the  conditions  for 
a  more  sympathetic  judgment. 

So  far  as  form  is  concerned,  it  is  clear  that 
since  the  middle  of  the  nineteenth  century  there 
has  been  a  fairly  steady  progress  toward  a  greater 
freedom  in  the  whole  field  of  esthetic  sympathy. 
The  sudden  expansion  of  sympathetic  feeling 
toward  the  wilder  aspects  of  Nature,  which  marked 
the  latter  part  of  the  eighteenth  century  in  Eng- 
land and  elsewhere,  has  since  then  been  paralleled 
in  the  field  of  painting,  of  music,  and  of  the  other 
arts.  A  generation  trained  to  the  enjoyment  of 
Monet's  landscapes,  Rodin's  sculptures,  and  the 


AFTER  FIFTY  YEARS  283 

music  of  Richard  Strauss  will  not  be  repelled 
from  Whitman  merely  because  he  wrote  in  an  un- 
familiar form.  The  modern  tendency  to  empha- 
size what  is  significant  or  characteristic  in  the 
work  of  art,  —  perhaps  to  a  too  complete  exclusion 
of  the  question  of  merely  formal  beauty,  —  hap 
been  favorable  to  all  the  great  Romanticists, 
Whitman  included.  Expansions  and  contractions 
of  a3sthetic  sympathy  are  among  the  constantly  re- 
curring phenomena  with  which  literature  has  to 
deal,  but  there  seems  to  be  no  immediate  prospect 
of  any  such  Classical  reaction  as  would  create  a 
new  impatience  with  Whitman's  irregularities  of 
form. 

Indeed,  the  increased  knowledge  of  the  struc- 
ture of  many  types  of  world-literature,  differing 
widely  from  the  conventional  verse  forms  of 
Western  Europe,  and  yet  satisfying  the  aesthetic 
sense,  has  rendered  our  critical  formulas  more 
flexible.  When  Leaves  of  Grass  was  written, 
the  poetical  books  of  the  Old  Testament,  to  which 
Whitman  was  chiefly  indebted  for  his  scheme  of 
rhythm,  were  rarely  spoken  of  as  poetry  at  all. 
To-day  both  the  structural  features  and  the  Orien- 
tal imagery  of  this  Hebrew  verse  are  everywhere 
recognized  by  English  readers.  Other  Oriental 
literatures  have  grown  more  familiar  than  they 
were  a  half -century  ago,  and  this  literary  contact 
of  the  East  with  the  West  will  assuredly  become 


284  WALT  WHITMAN 

far  closer  in  the  future.    All  this  makes  against 

o 

dogmatism  as  to  what  "  is  poetry  "  and  what  "  is 
not  poetry."  Emotional  effect  outweighs  any  a 
priori  argument  as  to  the  means  by  which  the  ef- 
fect is  produced.  That  Blake  is  a  very  eccentric 
poet  seems  to  our  generation  a  less  important  fact 
than  that  he  is  felt  to  be  a  true  poet.  We  breed 
too  many  hybrid  plants  not  to  be  conscious  that 
there  may  be  hybrid  types  of  literature,  not  less 
beautiful  and  wonderful  than  the  original  stocks. 
In  short,  the  whole  contemporary  tendency  to  con- 
sider results  rather  than  processes  has  made  it 
easier  for  the  public  to  admit  that,  if  to  an  ever- 
increasing  number  of  persons  Whitman  performs 
the  function  of  a  poet,  a  poet  he  probably  is.  If 
the  flying-machine  actually  flies,  how  it  was  built 
matters  little. 

The  shock  resulting  from  Whitman's  pecu- 
liarities of  form  has  thus  been  lessened  by  a 
wider  familiarity  with  other  poetical  forms  which 
differ  from  the  traditional  English  verse-types, 
as  well  as  by  the  tacit  assumption  that  any  art- 
form  may  be  justified  l>y  its  effects.  But  the 
shock  has  also  been  diminished  by  the  knowledge 
that  men  of  other  nationalities  have  accepted 
Whitman's  work  as  that  of  a  true  poet.  Leaves 
of  Grass  has  been  translated,  in  whole  or  in 
part,  into  many  European  languages.  These 
translations  are  constantly  increasing  in  num- 


AFTER  FIFTY  YEARS  285 

ber.  In  Italian  and  German  versions  especially, 
his  rhythms  seem  to  me  to  lose  but  little,  if  any- 
thing, of  their  original  potency.  In  this  respect 
he  is  again  like  Byron.  That  a  Frenchman  or 
German  should  find  "  Mazeppa  "  more  easy  to 
translate  than  "  Lines  upon  Tintern  Abbey," 
and  more  interesting  as  well,  does  not  prove 
Byron  a  better  poet  than  Wordsworth.  Nor  does 
the  Continental  curiosity  about  Poe  and  Whit- 
man, coupled  with  indifference  to  Lowell  and 
Whittier,  prove  the  soundness  of  the  theory  that 
the  verdict  of  foreign  contemporaries  is  likely  to 
be  the  judgment  of  posterity.  But  it  does  prove 
in  Whitman's  case,  as  with  Scott  and  Byron 
before  him,  the  presence  of  a  certain  largeness 
and  power,  a  kind  of  communicative  emotion, 
which  far  outweighs,  with  the  foreign  audience, 
any  delicate  command  over  the  last  refinements 
of  poetic  expression. 

His  imitators  on  the  Continent,  as  in  England 
and  America,  have  not  thus  far  been  able  to  bend 
his  bow.  Edward  Carpenter,  who  has  a  message 
of  his  own  to  deliver  in  Whitmanian  verse, 
has  handled  the  instrument  not  unskillfully. 
But  most  of  the  experiments  in  "  free  verse  " 
make  but  melancholy  reading.  Whitman's  mea- 
sures have  been  used  as  a  megaphone  to  shout 
out  essentially  prose  exclamations  ;  freaks  and 
cranks  and  neurotic  women,  with  here  and  there 


286  WALT  WHITMAN 

a  hot  little  prophet,  have  toyed  with  it,  and  once 
in  a  while  a  true  poet  has  used  it  for  the  utterance 
of  a  mood.  But  they  have  all  lacked  Whitman's 
cunning  as  signally  as  they  have  lacked  his 
strength. 

The  parodists  have,  upon  the  whole,  been  more 
just  than  his  admiring  imitators.  Such  craftsmen 
as  Mr.  Swinburne,  Bayard  Taylor,  H.  C.  Bunnei 
and  J.  K.  Stephen  have  given  us  the  very  pulse 
of  the  Whitman  machine,  —  that  unlucky  ma- 
chine of  the  "  official  democrat "  which  some- 
times kept  on  revolving  when  the  poet  was  loafing. 
By  skillful  use  of  the  catalogue  trick,  with  a  few 
foreign  phrases  mixed  with  American  slang,  a 
u  Camerado"  l  or  two,  a  loose  syntax,  and  plenty 
of  exclamation  points,  anybody  can  turn  out  a 
fair  parody  of  Whitman.  But  in  such  a  produc- 
tion as  Bunner's  "  Home  Sweet  Home  (after 
Wrhitman)  "  there  is  more  than  this  ;  there  is  a 
real,  affectionate  absorption  of  Whitman's  feel- 
ing toward  his  material ;  Bunner  is  not  imitating, 
but  actually  poetizing,  for  the  moment,  as  Whit- 
man might  have  done  ;  and  the  result,  playful 
as  it  is,  brings  us  more  intimately  into  the  se- 
crets of  Whitman's  workshop  than  do  the  analy- 
ses of  the  critics.  It  is  a  pity  that  Whitman 
could  not  have  had,  like  Browning  and  Tennyson, 

1  A  good  mouth-filling  word  -which  Whitman  borrowed,  by 
the  way,  from  Scott's  Kenilworth. 


AFTER  FIFTY  YEARS  287 

a  sufficient  sense  of  humor  to  enjoy  such  happy 
parodies  of  himself. 

But  critics  and  translators,  parodists  and  imi- 
tators alike,  in  spite  of  all  they  have  done  to 
familiarize  the  world  with  Whitmanian  measures, 
have  left  to  the  future  the  real  aesthetic  valua- 
tion of  those  measures.  In  the  present  state  of 
metrical  science  no  one  can  say  exactly  how  much 
influence  Whitman  has  had  upon  the  development 
of  poetical  forms.  That  he  has  been  an  enfran- 
chising element  seems  probable.  He  was  neither, 
as  one  school  of  critics  would  have  it,  "  above  art " 
and  a  law  unto  himself  ;  nor  was  he  by  any 
means  the  artless  unsophisticated  rustic,  with  a 
large  and  loving  nature,  but,  as  Tennyson  said 
of  him  to  Phillips  Brooks,  "  no  poet."  Yet  we 
shall  not  be  able  to  register  the  precise  nature 
of  Whitman's  service  as  a  craftsman  until  we 
have  invented  a  scheme  of  notation  adequate  for 
the  registration  of  such  rhythmical  cadences  as 
those  in  which  oratory  and  highly  emotional 
prose  abound.  We  know  and  can  notate  the 
tunes  of  verse.  We  recognize  the  tunes  of  speech 
without  agreeing  upon  any  system  of  notation. 
But  the  field  of  rhapsody, Whitman's  "  new  and 
national  declamatory  expression,"  lying,  like  the 
varied  aria  and  recitative  of  oratorio,  and  the 
chant  of  the  church  service,  somewhere  between 
song  and  speech,  now  approximating  one  type 


288  WALT  WHITMAN 

and  now  another,  has  not  yet  been  satisfactorily 
charted.  Nevertheless,  while  metricists  are  ana- 
lysing the  process  which  Whitman  employed, 
lovers  of  literature,  in  increasing  numbers,  have 
come  to  recognize  the  result.  "  I  am  a  stickler 
for  form  in  literature,"  says  Mr.  Richard  Watson 
Gilder,  "  and  one  thing  that  I  admire  in  Whit- 
man is  his  magnificent  form."  1 

The  second  obstacle  to  the  popular  acceptance 
of  Leaves  of  Grass  was  its  gospel  of  nudity,  — 

"  Of  physiology  from  top  to  toe  I  sing." 

And  this  shock,  like  the  shock  caused  by  eccen- 
tricity of  form,  has  grown  less  with  time.  Whit- 
man chose  deliberately  and  maintained  obsti- 
nately the  theory  that  the  body  is  as  divine  as  the 
soul  and  that  one  part  of  the  body  is  as  divine 
as  another.  It  was  a  logical  consequence  of  his 
monistic  philosophy.  But  that  was  an  ill-starred 
day  for  the  "  outsetting  bard  "  when  he  wrote 
down,  among  other  notes  on  English  history: 
"  Vates  is  frequently  used  for  '  poet.'  The  Brit- 
ish Vates  were  priests  and  physiologists."  In  his 
double  role  of  priest  and  physiologist,  Whitman 
unquestionably  wrote  a  few  passages  which  gave, 
and  still  continue  to  give,  great  offense  to  fas- 
tidious readers.  Yet  these  passages  usually  bear 

1  Camden's  Compliments  to    Walt    Whitman,  Philadelphia, 
1889. 


AFTER  FIFTY  YEARS  289 

the  mark,  not  so  much  of  his  imaginative  energy 
as  of  his  automatic  describing-machine.  Here 
and  there  is  a  powerful  line  or  two,  not  meant 
and  not  fit  for  the  young;  but  of  the  eighty  lines 
which  O'Connor  admitted  to  be  objectionable  to 
"  malignant  virtue,"  most  are  as  innocent  of 
poetry  as  a  physiological  chart.  To  a  healthy- 
minded  person  these  lines  are  like  accidentally 
opening  the  door  of  the  wrong  dressing-room :  one 
is  amused,  embarrassed,  disenchanted  or  disgusted, 
according  to  one's  temperament  and  training. 

At  worst,  Whitman  was  immodest  rather  than 
indecent.  No  reputable  critic,  considering  his 
writings  in  their  totality,  would  to-day  accuse 
him  of  eroticism,  although  he  has  sometimes 
been  read,  no  doubt,  by  those  who  are  patho- 
logically unfit  for  that  kind  of  reading.  But  he 
has  paid,  and  long  will  continue  to  pay,  the  pen- 
alty which  attaches  to  breaches  of  conventional 
decorum.  In  the  mystical  transport  of  that  first 
revelation  of  the  essential  beauty  and  sacredness 
of  every  natural  object  and  function,  he  danced 
as  David  did  before  the  Ark  of  the  Lord.  But 
the  rough  and  ready  police-court  judgment  of 
the  world  considers,  not  the  religious  exaltation 
of  the  act,  but  the  attendant  exposure  of  the 
person.  The  kind  Emerson  made  this  perfectly 
clear,  no  doubt,  in  that  famous  talk  upon  Bos- 
ton Common.  Whitman  went  his  own  way, 


290  WALT  WHITMAN 

and  took  his  chances.  "I  had  my  choice,"  he 
said,  "  when  I  commenced."  Yet  time,  though 
it  has  not  yet  vindicated  the  wisdom  of  that 
choice,  has  absolved  him  from  the  charge  of 
covert  suggestion  of  evil.  The  "athletic  Amer- 
ica "  of  the  twentieth  century,  in  full  accord  with 
that  portion  of  Whitman's  gospel  which  glori- 
fies the  body,  can  scarcely  understand  how  that 
gospel  was  suspected  by  the  white-faced,  black- 
coated,  dyspeptic  persons  who,  as  Mr.  James 
Ford  Rhodes  tells  us,  were  the  typical  Ameri- 
cans of  1855.1 

It  is  not  that  the  young  athletes  of  the  present 
day  have  learned  to  idolize  Whitman  either  as  a 
man  or  as  a  poet.  They  are  often  suspicious  of 
his  self-consciousness,  and  they  think  that  he 
protests  too  much.  Compared  physically  with  a 
natural,  sinewy  athlete  like  Lincoln,  Whitman 
was  always  "  soft."  In  spite  of  his  big  body  and 
his  unusual  powers  of  endurance,  he  was  too 
emotional  for  the  role.  Nervous  invalids  like 
Symonds  and  Stevenson  have  found  him  an  im- 
mense tonic.2  The  real  athletes,  like  those  real 
working  men  whom  he  longed  to  influence,  have 

1  See  Rhodes's  History  of  the  United  States,  vol.  iii,  chap.  12. 

2  Symonds  testified :   "  Leaves  of  Grass,  which  I  first  read  at 
the  age  of  twenty-five,  influenced  me  more  perhaps  than  any 
other  book  has  done,  except  the  Bible ;  more  than  Plato,  more 
than  Goethe."   Stevenson  spoke  of  it  as  "  a  book  which  tum- 
bled the  world  upside  down  for  me." 


AFTER  FIFTY   YEARS  291 

been  inclined  to  consider  him  a  humbug.  But 
here,  as  with  the  questions  of  form  and  of  moral- 
ity, time  is  gradually  revealing  the  truth.  No 
Whitman  myth,  favorable  or  unfavorable,  can 
forever  withstand  the  accumulated  evidence  as 
to  Whitman's  actual  character.  Not  in  vain  was 
he  photographed,  reported,  advertised,  Boswell- 
ized.  The  "  wild  buffalo  strength  "  myth,  which 
he  himself  loved  to  cultivate,  has  gone  ;  the  Sir 
Galahad  myth,  so  touchingly  cherished  by 
O'Connor,  has  gone,  too;  and  Dr.  Bucke's 
"  Superman  "  myth  is  fast  going.  We  have  in 
their  place  something  very  much  better ;  a  man 
earthy,  incoherent,  arrogant,  but  elemental  and 
alive. 

He  was  a  man,  furthermore,  who  had  some- 
thing to  say.  His  early  notebooks  have  now 
revealed  the  deliberation  with  which  he  brooded 
over  his  message.  His  known  methods  of  com- 
position have  revealed  the  extreme  care  with 
which  he  wrote,  —  his  painstaking  preparation 
of  lists  of  words,  his  patient  effort  to  "  make  this 
more  rhythmical,"  and  to  fit  each  poem  into  its 
place  in  his  vast  scheme.  He  chose  for  his  theme 
the  Modern  Man,  typified  by  himself,  and  placed 
in  the  United  States  of  America.  No  doubt 
there  are  defects  in  his  draftsmanship,  but  upon 
the  whole  he  drew  with  splendid  justice  his  pic- 
ture of  the  "strong-possessed  soul."  There 


292  WALT   WHITMAN 

should  be  first,  he  claims,  a  vigorous  physical 
manhood  and  womanhood  ;  then  a  courageous 
heart,  and  an  all-inclusive  comradeship.  Clean, 
strong,  brave,  friendly  persons  are  the  test  of  a 
civilization.  So  much  for  his  doctrine  concern- 
ing the  units  which  form  our  heterogeneous 
democratic  society. 

But  how  are  the  units  to  be  organized  into 
"these  States"?  Here  we  touch  a  singular  de- 
fect in  Whitman's  mind  as  well  as  in  his  art. 
He  ignored  —  sometimes  consciously,  more  often 
unconsciously  —  those  intermediate  groups  which 
mark  the  advance  of  men  into  the  perfection  of 
organized  society.  Compare  him  with  another 
genuinely  American  and  democratic  poet,  who 
found,  like  Whitman,  some  of  his  finest  themes 
in  politics,  and  who  loved  and  celebrated  the 
common  people.  Whittier's  roots,  like  Whit- 
man's, ran  deep  down  in  a  certain  spot  of  soil, 
but,  unlike  Whitman,  he  was  never  transplanted 
and  made  a  wanderer ;  he  sings  of  fireside,  of 
township  and  county,  of  state  and  section,  of 
church  and  party  and  organization,  and  his  note 
strikes  true  upon  them  all ;  his  loyalty  to  his 
commonwealth  rings  harmoniously  with  his  loy- 
alty to  the  whole  country  and  to  the  wider  inter- 
ests of  mankind,  like  bells  within  bells,  chiming 
consonant  music.  But  Whitman's  mind  passes 
immediately  from  the  individual  to  the  mass. 


AFTER  FIFTY  YEARS  293 

He  paints  men  and  women,  but  rarely  that 
transfiguring  love  of  the  one  man  for  the  one 
woman  upon  which  rests  the  family ;  he  writes 
glorious  things  about  physical  fatherhood  and 
motherhood,  but  little  about  the  home  ;  and  upon 
all  those  countless  fealties  of  neighborhood,  of 
social,  political  and  religious  cooperation,  which 
after  all  hold  our  centrifugal  individualistic  forces 
together  and  make  common  progress  possible, 
he  throws  but  a  careless,  casual  glance.  Beyond 
the  unit  he  knows  nothing  more  definite  than 
his  vague  "  divine  average  "  until  he  comes  to 
"  these  States  "  and  finds  himself  on  sure  ground 
again. 

I  characterize  his  phrase  the  "  divine  average  " 
as  a  vague  one,  because  he  takes  no  pains  to 
use  it  consistently.  Sometimes,  apparently,  it 
means  nothing  more  than  a  doctrine  of  numer- 
ical ratios,  as  if  there  were  a  sacredness  in  sta- 
tistical tables ;  sometimes  it  is  used  to  praise  the 
commonplace  because  it  is  the  commonplace; 
and  then  again  he  fills  it  with  noble  significance 
in  making  it  mean  the  presence  of  the  divine 
in  every  ordinary  "  average  "  man  and  woman. 
Here  is  what  he  says : 

"Painters  have  painted  their  swarming  groups  and  the 

centre-figure  of  all, 
From  the  head  of  the  centre  figure  spreading  a  nimbus 

of  gold-colored  light, 


204  WALT  WHITMAN 

But  I  paint  myriads  of  heads,  but  paint  no  head  without 

its  nimbus  of  gold-colored  light, 
From  my  hand  from  the  brain  of  every  man  and  woman 

it  streams,  effulgently  flowing  forever." 

This  desire  of  Whitman's  to  glorify  every- 
body equally  is  touching  in  its  naivete ;  but  the 
aspiration  is  futile,  whether  in  painting  a  picture 
or  in  depicting  democratic  society.  To  paint  a 
picture  in  that  fashion  is  to  overlook  the  essen- 
tial process  of  selection,  of  composition ;  to 
sketch  a  society  on  that  plan  is  to  ignore  spirit- 
ual values,  degrees  of  achievement  and  of  growth. 
Preraphaelite  painters  may  stick  little  dots  of 
gilt  upon  a  blue  ground  and  call  it  heaven ;  and 
democratic  poets  may  assert  that  one  man  is  as 
good  as  another;  but  the  plain  people  know 
better.  It  would  be  unfair  to  say  of  Whitman, 
as  Emerson  did  of  Gibbon,  u  The  man  has  no 
shrine ;  a  man's  most  important  possession." 
He  had  altogether  too  many  shrines.  Monist  as 
lie  was  in  philosophy,  he  was  poly  t heist  in  prac- 
tice :  he  dropped  on  his  knees  anywhere,  before 
stick  or  stone,  flesh  or  spirit,  and  swore  that  each 
in  turn  was  divine.  He  would  have  no  hierarchy. 
The  lesson  of  gradation,  taught  by  the  very  stars 
in  their  courses,  he  would  not  learn.  The  gentle- 
man was  no  higher  than  the  man,  the  saint  no 
finer  product  than  the  sinner.  With  a  soul  that 
instinctively  cried  "  Glory !  Glory ! "  he  never- 


AFTER  FIFTY  YEARS  295 

theless  did  not  perceive  that  the  glory  of  the 
terrestrial  was  one,  and  the  glory  of  the  celestial 
was  another. 

But  when  he  passes  to  the  depiction  of  the 
ideal  life  of  the  United  States,  Whitman's  gran- 
diose phrases  and  deep-heaving  rhythms,  and 
even  the  very  vagueness  of  his  thought,  are 
suited  to  his  vast  theme.  First  in  real  signifi- 
cance, I  think,  though  casual  readers  of  Whit- 
man often  overlook  it,  is  the  emphasis  laid, 
particularly  in  his  later  poetry,  upon  the  indebt- 
edness of  our  Democracy  to  the  Past.  "  The  ship 
of  Democracy,"  he  declares,  "  bears  all  the  past 
with  it."  Our  "present  is  impelled  by  the  past, 
like  a  projectile."  We  are  indeed  treading  the 
soil  of  a  fresh  new  world,  not  "  red  from  Europe's 
old  dynastic  slaughter  house,"  and  yet 

"  To  obey  as  well  as  command,  to  follow  more  than  to 

lead, 

These  are  also  the  lessons  of  our  New  World  ; 
With  how  little  the  New  after  all,  how  much  the  old,  old 

World. 

Long  and  long  has  the  grass  been  growing, 
Long  and  long  has  the  rain  been  falling, 
Long  has  the  globe  been  rolling  round." 

These  States  should  be  free,  not  bound  to  the 
past,  though  able  to  profit  by  it.  Whitman 
pushes  this  doctrine  of  liberty  very  far  : 

«  Resist  much,  obey  little." 


296  WALT  WHITMAN 

In  thus  emphasizing  our  American  contempt 
for  statutes  and  ceremonies,  Whitman  perhaps 
claims  too  much  for  the  laissez  faire  theory : 
but  his  teaching  is  interesting  in  view  of  the 
present  drift  in  city,  state,  and  nation  toward 
centralized  power. 

He  insists  that  democratic  America  must  be 
religious.  "  I  say  that  the  real  and  permanent 
grandeur  of  these  States  must  be  their  religion." 
Exactly  what  Whitman  meant  by  religion  eludes 
formulation,  as  we  have  already  seen.  But  there 
is  no  vagueness  in  his  next  injunction ;  namely, 
that  we  should  avoid  sectionalism.  His  own  aim 
was,  he  says,  "  To  put  the  complete  union  of  the 
States  in  my  songs  without  any  preference  or 
partiality  whatever."  North  and  South,  East 
and  West,  he  would  "  plant  companionship  thick 
as  trees,"  he  would  "  found  superb  friendships." 
Not  in  vain  had  the  journeyman  printer  and 
carpenter  tramped  up  and  down  the  states  of  the 
Union,  learning  many  cities  and  many  men.  He 
did  endeavor  to  speak,  in  quite  as  true  a  sense 
as  Daniel  Webster,  "for  the  country  and  the 
whole  country."  And  this  wholeness  was  made 
indissoluble,  Whitman  believed,  by  the  results  of 
the  Civil  War.  That  war  was  the  one  great  spir- 
itual crisis  of  his  political  faith,  as  was  the 
French  Revolution  in  the  experience  of  Words- 
worth. In  his  later  life  he  came  to  think  that 


AFTER  FIFTY  YEARS  297 

the  war  was  the  "axle"  upon  which  Leaves 
of  Grass  really  turned,  and  that  his  book  could 
not  be  understood  without  a  comprehension  of 
that  struggle.  Of  its  pathos,  mystery,  carnage, 
jubilant  shouts  of  liberty,  he  wrote  in  Drum- 
Taps  ;  and  all  the  tragedy  and  glory  of  the  four 
years  of  conflict  were  justified,  he  believed,  in  the 
ultimate  union  of  brethren. 

Finally,  these  States,  thus  united  by  toil  and 
sorrow  and  bloodshed  and  joy,  have  for  their 
chief  task  the  laying  of  a  foundation  for  the  future. 
We  are  still  pioneers,  the  ultimate  goal  is  not 
reached.  But  some  day  there  shall  be  a  better 
civilization  here  in  America,  when  "  the  average 
man  is  taught  the  glory  of  his  daily  walk  and 
trade,"  and  when  the  masses  of  men  shall  live 
together  in  fraternal  faith  and  comradeship. 

"  In    this   broad   earth   of  ours,   amid   the   measureless 

grossness  and  the  slag, 
Enclosed  and  safe  within  its  central  heart, 
Nestles  the  seed  perfection." 

What  then  should  be  the  message  of  American 
Democracy  to  the  world?  What  may  it  con- 
tribute to  "the  good  old  cause,  the  great  idea, 
the  progress  and  freedom  of  the  race  ?  "  Whit- 
man believed  that  this  "  good  old  cause  "  would 
always  find  lovers  and,  if  need  be,  martyrs  here. 
And  therefore  he  celebrated  any  movement,  the 
world  over,  which  made  for  self-government. 


298  WALT  WHITMAN 

This  is  much :  it  is  more  striking  now  than  it 
was  fifty  years  ago,  for  self-government  has 
grown  in  many  quarters  to  seem  something  old- 
fashioned,  rhetorical,  not  making  for  economic 
efficiency.  But  Whitman's  championship  of  lib- 
erty is  not  all ;  he  sang,  as  few  poets  have  sung, 
the  praise  of  internationalism.  He  saluted  the 
"  flag  of  man."  In  one  of  his  prose  works  he  wrote : 
"  I  would  inaugurate  from  America  international 
poems.  I  have  thought  that  the  invisible  root  out 
of  which  the  poetry  deepest  in  and  dearest  to 
humanity  flows  is  friendship.  I  have  thought  that 
both  in  patriotism  and  song  (even  amid  their 
grandest  shows  past)  we  have  adhered  too  long 
to  petty  limits  and  that  the  time  has  come  to 
enfold  the  world."  Herder  said  the  same  thing 
a  century  earlier.  Whitman  clothes  the  thought 
in  poetry :  — 

"  One  thought  ever  at  the  fore  — 
That  in  the  Divine  Ship,  the  World,  breasting  Time  and 

Space, 
All  Peoples  of  the  globe  together  sail,   sail  the  same 

voyage,  are  bound  to  the  same  destination." 

And  the  goal  may  be  nearer  than  we  have 
thought :  — 

"  Never  were  such  sharp  questions  ask'd  as  this  day, 
Never  was  average  man,  his  soul,  more  energetic,  more 

like  a  God, 
Lo  how  he  urges  and  urges,  leaving  the  masses  no  rest ! 


AFTER  FIFTY  YEARS  299 

His  daring  foot  is  on  land  and  sea  everywhere,  he  colo- 
nizes the  Pacific,  the  archipelagoes, 

With  the  steamship,  the  electric  telegraph,  the  newspaper, 
the  wholesale  engines  of  war, 

With  these  and  the  world-spreading  factories  he  inter- 
links all  geography,  all  lands; 

What  whispers  are  these  O  lands,  running  ahead  of  you, 
passing  under  the  seas  ? 

Are  all  nations  communing  ?  is  there  going  to  be  but  one 
heart  to  the  globe  ?" 

"  Every  great  poet,"  said  Wordsworth  in  a 
well-known  passage,  "  is  a  teacher.  I  wish  to  be 
considered  either  as  a  teacher  or  as  nothing."  * 
By  this  test  Whitman  belongs  with  the  great 
poets.  One  cannot  go  to  him  for  information 
about  the  next  election,  or  for  panaceas  against 
all  the  evils  with  which  democracy  is  fighting  in 
the  twentieth  century.  But  his  poetry  does,  in 
his  own  words,  "  free,  arouse,  dilate  "  the  indi- 
vidual reader.  It  fulfills  what  Whitman  thought 
should  be  the  aim  of  all  poetry,  namely,  —  to 
fill  a  man  "  with  vigorous  and  clean  manliness, 
religiousness,  and  give  him  good  heart  as  a  rad- 
ical possession  and  habit."  With  the  natural 
dogmatism  of  a  good  teacher,  he  held  certain 
views  concerning  the  function  of  the  individual, 
the  function  of  the  United  States,  and  the  joy- 

1  Compare  a  remark  of  Whitman,  late  in  hb  life,  to  Mr. 
W.  R.  Thayer :  "  I  don't  value  the  poetry  in  what  I  have 
written  so  much  as  the  teaching  ;  the  poetry  is  only  a  horse 
for  the  other  to  ride." 


300  WALT  WHITMAN 

ful  message  of  these  States  to  the  world.  The 
value  of  those  views  is  very  slightly  affected 
by  the  disputable  questions  about  his  technical 
craftsmanship  as  a  poet.  One  may  even  go  as 
far  as  his  friend  John  Burroughs  has  gone  in 
conceding  grave  faults.1  One  may  admit  that 
Whitman's  popular  reputation,  like  Browning's, 
will  always  suffer  —  and  justly  suffer  —  be- 
cause of  his  artistic  shortcomings.  "  Whether  my 
friends  claim  it  for  me  or  not,"  he  once  admitted, 
"  I  know  well  enough  that  in  respect  to  picto- 

1  "  Nothing  but  the  most  uncompromising  religious  purpose 
can  justify  certain  things  in  the  *  Leaves ;  '  nothing  but  the 
most  buoyant  and  pervasive  spirituality  can  justify  its  over- 
whelming materiality ;  nothing  but  the  most  creative  imagina- 
tion can  offset  its  tremendous  realism  ;  nothing  but  the  note  of 
universal  brotherhood  can  atone  for  its  vehement  American- 
ism ;  nothing  but  the  primal  spirit  of  poesy  itself  can  make 
amends  for  this  open  flouting  of  the  routine  poetic,  and  this 
endless  procession  before  us  of  the  common  and  the  familiar. 

"  The  home,  the  fireside,  the  domestic  allurements,  are  not  in 
him  ;  love,  as  we  find  it  in  other  poets,  is  not  in  him  ;  the  idyl- 
lic, except  in  touches  here  and  there,  is  not  in  him  ;  the  choice, 
the  finished,  the  perfumed,  the  romantic,  the  charm  of  art  and 
the  delight  of  form,  are  not  to  be  looked  for  in  his  pages.  The 
cosmic  takes  the  place  of  the  idyllic ;  the  begetter,  the  Adamic 
man,  takes  the  place  of  the  lover ;  patriotism  takes  the  place 
of  family  affection ;  charity  takes  the  place  of  piety ;  love  of 
kind  is  more  than  love  of  neighbor ;  the  poet  and  the  artist 
are  swallowed  up  in  the  seer  and  the  prophet."  JOHN  BUB- 
ROUOHS,  Whitman :  A  Study,  Boston,  1896,  pp.  149,  186,  and 
195  especially. 


AFTER  FIFTY  YEARS  301 

rial  talent,  dramatic  situations,  and  especially  in 
verbal  melody  and  all  the  conventional  technique 
of  poetry,  not  only  the  divine  works  that  today 
stand  ahead  in  the  world's  reading,  but  dozens 
more,  transcend,  (some  of  them  immeasurably 
transcend)  all  I  have  done  or  could  do."  But 
neither  the  literary  deficiencies  which  he  here  con- 
fesses, nor  his  faults  of  personal  character,  mar  the 
fundamental  soundness  of  Walt  Whitman's  views 
concerning  those  problems  of  democracy  which 
affect  us  all.  He  has  pointed  out  the  way  to 
individual  manhood,  to  comradeship,  to  world- 
wide fraternity.  What  matter  if  he  has  not  all 
the  drawing-room  virtues  and  accomplishments 
of  your  finished  poet  ? 

Many  men  know  what  it  is  to  be  lost  in  the 
woods.  People  behave  very  differently  in  that 
predicament.  Some  persons  cry,  others  swear  ; 
some  sit  down  on  a  log  and  whistle ;  others  beat 
around  with  the  guides  in  search  of  the  lost  path. 
And  after  a  while,  one  hears  some  big  unkempt 
guide,  circling  through  the  underbrush,  cry  out 
44  We 're  all  right!  There 's  the  clearing !"  There 
will  always  be  some  delicate-minded  excursionist 
to  remark  :  "  That  man's  voice  is  too  loud.  He 
makes  me  nervous.  The  expression  *  All  right ' 
is  slang.  He  is  not  wearing  a  collar!  He  has 
been  perspiring.  I  think  he  has  torn  his  trousers ! " 

It   is  like    the  stout,  hearty    voice  of    Walt 


302  WALT  WHITMAN 

Whitman,  calling  out  to  us  who  are  lost  in  the 
brush  and  the  swamp  of  class  hatred,  race  pre- 
judice, economic  injustice  and  social  wrong :  "  All 
right !  Yonder  lies  the  clearing !  There  are  the 
sunlit  heights  of  peace  and  goodwill ;  and  here  is 
the  path  !  "  The  born  disciples  of  Whitman,  hear- 
ing that  voice,  will  take  up  their  packs  again,  and 
strike  into  the  path  behind  their  leader,  were  he 
ten  times  more  disreputable  looking  than  he  is. 
"  Never  mind  the  torn  trousers,"  say  they,  "  lift 
up  your  eyes  and  your  hearts,  and  make  for  the 
clearing !  " 

It  is  plain  that  to  such  readers  Whitman  is  more 
than  a  mere  writer.  To  them  the  question  whether 
he  wrote  poetry  or  prose  counts  for  nothing  com- 
pared with  the  fundamental  question  whether  this 
was  or  was  not  a  man  with  something  glorious  to 
say.  To  vex  his  message  with  academic  inquiries 
about  the  type  of  literature  to  which  it  belongs 
is  like  badgering  St.  Paul  about  the  syntax  of 
his  epistle  to  the  Romans.  Whitman  has  become 
to  them  no  longer  a  rhapsodist  to  be  read,  enjoyed 
and  quoted  :  he  is  an  ethical  force,  a  regenerator, 
a  spiritual  discoverer  who  has  brought  them 
into  a  new  world.  It  is  no  wonder  that  in  their 
enthusiastic  personal  loyalty  they  lose  all  sense 
of  literary  proportion,  and  praise  Walt  Whitman 
in  terms  that  would  be  extravagant  even  if  ap- 
plied to  a  poet  of  the  rank  of  Dante. 


AFTER  FIFTY  YEARS  303 

No  one  can  read  Whitman  for  twenty-five 
years,  as  I  have  done,  without  comprehending 
this  feeling.  In  certain  moods,  —  and  these  are 
perhaps  the  moods  of  noblest  and  truest  human 
sympathy,  —  the  recognition  of  Whitman  as  a 
seer  and  prophet  seems  the  end  of  the  whole 
matter.  But  there  are  other  moods,  familiar  to 
all  who  have  passed  much  of  their  lives  in  inti- 
mate companionship  with  books,  in  which  the  old 
persistent  question  reasserts  itself,  and  one  asks, 
whether,  after  all,  there  is  in  Whitman's  verse 
the  beauty  that  outlives  the  generations  and  gives 
poetry  its  immortality.  It  happened  not  long 
ago  that,  in  examining  a  bulky  collection  of  news- 
paper and  magazine  notices  of  Whitman,  I  let 
one  clipping  fall  to  the  floor.  On  the  reverse  of 
the  slip  was  printed,  as  it  chanced,  Keats's  ode 
"  To  Autumn,"  composed  on  the  afternoon  of  a 
September  Sunday,  in  the  year  in  which  Walt 
Whitman  was  born.  Involuntarily  I  murmured 
those  rich  lines,  at  once  so  perfect  in  feeling  and 
so  flawless  in  their  form.  And  I  asked  myself  : 
"  Why  is  it  that  this  poem  —  relatively  empty 
of  ethical  significance  as  it  is  —  is  sure  to  live, 
while  we  can  only  say  of  Whitman's  poetry  that 
some  of  it  ought  to  live  ?  " 

The  answer  to  that  question  is,  I  suppose,  the 
inevitable  one  that  Keats  was  the  better  artist ; 
that  in  his  hands  truth  and  beauty  were  wrought 


304  WALT  WHITMAN 

together  into  forms  instinctively  precious  to  men. 
Whitman,  greatly  dowered  as  he  was  by  nature, 
and  far  transcending  Keats  in  range  of  imagina- 
tive vision,  had  but  an  imperfect  control  of  the 
recognized  instrument  of  poetry,  and  the  new  one 
that  he  strove  to  fashion  has  not  yet  been  ap- 
proved by  time. 

A  longer  interval  than  fifty  years  must  elapse 
before  the  permanence  of  this  new  rhapsodic 
verse  can  be  adequately  tested.  But  it  soems 
already  obvious  that  page  after  page  of  Whit- 
man is  doomed  to  transiency.  Byron  and  Words- 
worth, Moore  and  Southey,  have  written  hundreds 
of  prosaic  pages,  which  are  indeed  held  together 
by  formal  verse  structure,  but  which  now  move 
no  man  as  poetry.  But  the  disintegration  already 
apparent  in  Leaves  of  Grass  is  due  not  so  much 
to  the  circumstance  that  its  contents  are  but  im- 
perfectly wrought  into  the  conventional,  tradi- 
tional verse  forms.  The  radical  defect  is  that 
the  raw  material  of  fact  is  but  imperfectly  crys- 
tallized by  the  imagination.  In  passing  through 
the  creative  imagination  of  a  poet  crude  fact 
undergoes  a  structural  change,  like  iron  trans- 
muted into  steel.  But  often,  in  Leaves  of  Grass, 
this  change  has  failed  to  take  place.1  Sometimes 

1  "  He  lay  spread  abroad  in  a  condition  of  literary  solution. 
But  there  he  remained,  an  expanse  of  crystallizable  substances, 
waiting  for  the  structural  change  that  never  came ;  rich 


AFTER  FIFTY  YEARS  305 

it  is  not  only  imagination,  but  even  thought  that 
is  lacking.  "  Get  from  Mr.  Arkhurst  the  names 
of  all  insects  —  interweave  a  train  of  thought 
suitable,"  is  Whitman's  notebook  formula  for 
composing  a  proposed  poem ;  but  on  page  after 
page  of  Leaves  of  Grass  the  names  of  things 
are  prodigally  given,  while  the  "suitable  thought " 
remains  unexpressed.  Like  many  another  mystic, 
Whitman  was,  as  it  were,  hypnotized  by  phe- 
nomena, in  spite  of  his  conviction  that  phenomena 
are  only  the  symbols  of  the  unseen.  Such  men, 
when  they  attempt  literature,  easily  fall  into  the 
characteristic  error  of  the  realists,  and  in  their 
anxiety  to  present  the  body  of  whatever  fact 
concerns  them,  somehow  miss  its  soul.  Even  in 
that  Brooklyn  art  lecture  of  1851,  Whitman 
fell  into  the  immemorial  heresy  of  identifying 
nature  with  art.  There  is  another  troubled  entry 
in  one  of  his  early  notebooks,  which  goes  to  the 
root  of  the  difficulty:  "How  shall  my  eye  sep- 
arate the  beauty  of  the  blossoming  buckwheat 
field  from  the  stalks  and  heads  of  tangible 
matter  ?  How  shall  I  know  what  the  life  is  ex- 
cept as  I  see  it  in  the  flesh" 

How,  indeed !   And  yet  Wordsworth  knew  how 

above  almost  all  his  coevals  in  the  properties  of  poetry,  and  yet, 
for  want  of  a  definite  shape  and  fixity,  doomed  to  sit  forever 
apart  from  the  company  of  the  Poets." 

EDMUND  GOSSE,  Critical  Kit-Eats,  London,  1896,  p.  111. 


306  WALT  WHITMAN 

when  he  described  the  daffodils  flashing  upon  the 
inner  eye.  Those  "  stalks  and  heads  of  tangible 
matter  "  are  in  truth  the  perishable  portion  of 
Leaves  of  Grass.  Its  faults  of  taste  and  propor- 
tion are  the  familiar  faults  of  the  Romantic 
school.  It  is  at  times  turgid,  sprawling,  extrava- 
gant ;  here  are  bathos  and  vulgarity ;  a  vanitj 
like  Whistler's;  Byron's  rhymed  oratory  with- 
out even  the  clever  rhymes ;  Hugo's  vague  human- 
itarian theorizing  without  the  sustained  sonorous 
splendor.  When  the  imagination  of  Byron  and 
Hugo  is  in  full  activity,  all  such  faults  are  car- 
ried away  as  with  a  flood ;  they  are  the  merest 
debris  upon  its  foaming  surface.  But  with  Whit- 
man the  tangible  matter  often  chokes  the  imagi- 
native flood ;  there  are  too  many  logs  in  the 
stream  ;  the  observer  anddescriber  are  too  much 
for  the  poet.  The  trouble  with  Whitman's  ag- 
glutinative or  catalogue  method  is  not  that  he 
makes  catalogues,  but  that  the  enumerated  ob- 
jects remain  inert  objects  merely.  He  is  often 
like  a  yard-man  coupling  parlor-cars  whose  names 
are  rich  in  individual  associations  —  Malvolio, 
Manitoba,  Mazzini,  Manchuria,  Maria.  But  how- 
ever excitedly  those  musical  names  are  ejaculated, 
this  does  not  start  the  train.  The  difficulty  with 
the  comprehensive  architectural  scheme  into  which 
the  successive  editions  of  Leaves  of  Grass  were 
slowly  fitted  is  not  that  it  is  comprehensive  and 


AFTER  FIFTY  YEARS  307 

architectural,  but  that  the  poet,  like  Fourier  and 
Swedenborg  and  other  system-makers,  sub-let  so 
much  of  his  contract  to  the  theorizer.  Systems 
pass,  and  democracies  alter  their  form  and  mean- 
ing, and  the  very  face  of  the  earth  is  changed ; 
and  yet  those  lines  "  To  Autumn,"  improvised  by 
an  imagination  that  perceived  not  merely  the 
phenomena  but  the  secret  spirit  of  the  September 
afternoon,  remain  as  imperishable  as  that  Gre- 
cian urn  which  Keats  himself  chose  to  typify 
the  immutability  of  beauty. 

But  Whitman,  too,  in  spite  of  the  alloy  which 
lessens  the  purely  poetic  quality  and  hence  the 
permanence  of  his  verse,  is  sure,  it  seems  to 
me,  to  be  somewhere  among  the  immortals.  He 
will  survive,  not  so  much  by  the  absolute  perfec- 
tion of  single  lyrical  passages,  as  by  the  ampli- 
tude of  his  imagination,  his  magical  though  in- 
termittent power  of  phrase,  and  the  majesty  with 
which  he  confronts  the  eternal  realities.  Upon 
the  whole  the  most  original  and  suggestive  poetic 
figure  since  Wordsworth,  he  gazed  steadily,  like 
Wordsworth,  upon  the  great  and  permanent  ob- 
jects of  nature  and  the  primary  emotions  of  man- 
kind. Of  the  totality  of  his  work  one  may  well 
say,  "  The  sky  o'erarches  here."  Here  is  the  wide 
horizon,  the  waters  rolling  in  from  the  great  deep, 
the  fields  and  cities  where  men  toil  and  laugh  and 
conquer.  Here  are  the  gorgeous  processionals 


308  WALT  WHITMAN 

of  day  and  night,  of  lilac-time  and  harvest.  The 
endless  mystery  of  childhood,  the  pride  of  man- 
hood, the  calm  of  old  age  are  here ;  and  here,  too, 
at  last  is  the 

"  Dark  mother  always  gliding  near  with  soft  feet," 

the  hush  and  whisper  of  the  Infinite  Presence. 
These  primal  and  ultimate  things  Whitman  felt 
as  few  men  have  ever  felt  them,  and  he  expressed 
them,  at  his  best,  with  a  nobility  and  beauty  such 
as  only  the  world's  very  greatest  poets  have  sur- 
passed. Numbers  count  for  nothing,  when  one  is 
reckoning  the  audience  of  a  poet,  and  Whitman's 
audience  will,  for  natural  reasons,  be  limited  to 
those  who  have  the  intellectual  and  moral  gener- 
osity to  understand  him,  and  will  take  the  pains 
to  do  so.  But  no  American  poet  now  seems 
more  sure  to  be  read,  by  the  fit  persons,  after 
one  hundred  or  five  hundred  years. 


APPENDIX 


APPENDIX 

Preface  to  First  Edition,  line  30.  Mr.  Ame« 
wishes  me  to  say  that  it  was  his  friend  Mr.  Walter 
Learned  who  first  pointed  out  to  him  this  interesting 
parallelism. 

Page  9,  line  8.  I  refer  here  to  their  childhood  only. 
Both  George  and  "  Jeff  "  Whitman  developed  into 
useful  and  upright  citizens.  Miss  Amy  Haslam  Dowe, 
whose  aunt  married  George  Whitman,  kindly  permits 
me  to  quote  a  personal  letter  to  me  (July  9,  1907) 
in  which  she  describes  the  Whitman  brothers  :  — 

"  My  mother's  sister,  Louisa  Haslam,  married 
Colonel  George  Whitman,  and  I  would  tell  you  of 
him,  —  for  few  knew  him  better  and  none  loved 
him  more,  —  and  also  of  '  Jeff.'  Jeff  I  never  knew 
personally,  although  I  am  well  acquainted  with  his 
daughter  Jessie,  who  still  lives  in  St.  Louis.  I  will, 
therefore,  content  myself  with  quoting  from  the 
Journal  of  the  Association  of  Engineering  Societies 
concerning  him  :  — 

"  '  In  May,  1867,  he  accepted  the  position  as  chief 
engineer  of  our  St.  Louis  Water  Works,  which  were 
constructed  under  his  skillful  supervision,  his  old 
friend  and  former  chief,  James  P.  Kirkwood,  being 
consulting  engineer. 


312  WALT  WHITMAN 

"  *  The  works  were  completed  and  put  into  service  in 
June,  1871,  and  with  occasional  additions  to  machin- 
ery and  plant  have  served  our  city  for  nearly  twenty 
years,  and  stand  to-day  possibly  the  best  designed, 
best  constructed,  and  most  practical  system  of  water 
works  of  any  large  city  west  of  the  Alleghanies. 
There  is  his  monument. 

" '  We  rejoice  in  the  thought  that  here  was  an  en- 
gineer able,  skillful,  thorough,  and  conscientious,  who 
built  these  works  according  to  true  rules,  who  saw  that 
the  city  got  its  full  rights  under  the  contracts,  whose 
conduct  throughout  all  obeyed  the  same  plumb  and 
level  which  he  applied  to  engine  and  reservoir.' 

"  To  turn  now  to  my  uncle,  George  Whitman,  I 
can  speak  at  first  hand. 

"  In  the  War,  he  enlisted  as  a  private  soldier,  and 
solely  through  merit  rose  to  the  rank  of  Colonel.  The 
New  York  Times,  of  October  29,  1864,  under  the 
heading  of  '  Fifty-First  New  York  City  Veterans/ 
says,  *  During  the  rest  of  the  engagement  (Peters- 
burgh)  the  command  devolved  upon  Capt.  George 
W.  Whitman,  who  was  subsequently  specially  men- 
tioned in  the  official  report  of  the  affair  for  this  and 
a  long  previous  career  of  skill  and  courage  as  a  sol- 
dier.' I  know,  too,  that  my  uncle  was  presented  with 
a  sword  by  Brooklyn  people,  for  his  bravery. 

"  Yet  it  was  not  alone  physical  prowess  that  was 
my  uncle's ;  it  was  also  moral.  Soon  after  the  War, 
he  entered  the  employ  of  the  Metropolitan  Board  of 
Water  Works  of  New  York  City  as  inspector  of  pipes, 
and  often  had  contracts  also  from  other  cities.  The 


APPENDIX  313 

contracts  were  assigned  to  different  foundries,  my 
uncle  going  from  one  to  another  for  the  inspection. 
His  position  offered  opportunities  for  unlimited 
1  graft,'  and  more  than  one  inducement  was  put  forth 
by  foundry  owners  to  make  him  accept  thousands  of 
dollars'  worth  of  iron  pipes  which  he  had  rejected. 
It  was  in  vain.  The  absolute  incorruptibility  of  the 
man  came  to  be  recognized  by  the  Water  Boards,  and 
when  he  resigned  again  and  again,  as  he  grew  older^ 
the  Boards  besought  him  to  continue  in  their  employ, 
even  if  unable  to  do  the  inspecting  personally,  that 
the  pipes  might  be  marked  with  the  initials  4  G.  W. 
W.,'  which  had  come  to  stand  for  honesty  and  per- 
fection. 

"  Do  you  wonder,  Mr.  Perry,  that  I  protest  against 
your  remark  (page  9),  'None  of  the  children,  except 
Walt,  showed  any  marked  intellectual  or  moral  sta- 
mina'? 

"  I  must,  too,  take  serious  exception  to  your  epi- 
thet applied  to  George  Whitman  as  '  surly.'  Silent  he 
was  ;  but  surly  never. 

"  My  Uncle  George  was  the  most  silent  man  I 
have  ever  known.  He  loved  solitude  or,  at  most,  the 
companionship  of  not  more  than  one  or  two  as  dearly 
as  his  brother  the  poet  loved  humanity.  Uncle  George 
seldom  spoke,  but  when  he  did  it  was  always  kindly. 
As  a  child  I  spent  weeks  at  a  time  with  this  uncle 
and  aunt,  and  though  I  was  often  in  mischief,  my 
uncle  never  scolded  me.  As  I  grew  older,  I  came 
to  feel  that  if  there  were  one  chance  out  of  three  of 
my  uncle's  objecting  to  anything  I  wished  to  do,  that 


314  WALT  WHITMAN 

I  would  leave  that  thing  undone.  Moreover,  as  to 
the  married  life  of  my  aunt  and  uncle,  theirs  was  the 
most  ideally  happy  one  I  have  ever  seen. 

"  Although  I  am  trespassing  at  such  length  upon 
your  time,  I  would  point  out  a  minor  error  on  page 
244.  My  uncle  arid  aunt  had  only  one  child,  Walter, 
who  lived  at  all ;  he  died  at  the  age  of  eight  months. 

"  When  we  come  to  the  circumstances  of  *  Uncle 
Walt's  '  moving  to  Mickle  Street,  I  have  again  some- 
thing to  add.  Colonel  Whitman,  who  loved  the  coun- 
try, had  built  a  commodious  house  on  the  outskirts  of 
Burlington,  N.  J.,  and  had  built  it  larger  than  was 
wished  for  himself  and  his  wife  that  they  might 
accommodate  *  Uncle  Walt.'  And  to  their  amazement, 
when  they  were  about  to  move  to  the  new  house, 
4  Uncle  Walt '  declared  for  the  first  time  (as  I  re- 
member it)  his  intention  of  not  accompanying  them. 
Uncle  George  then  offered  to  build  a  small  house  for 
his  brother  on  the  place.  Of  no  avail.  Uncle  Walt 
wished  to  remain  in  town  and  remain  he  did.  The 
only  purpose  that  this  living  on  Mickle  Street  has 
served  —  as  far  as  I  can  see  —  is  that  it  has  given 
the  world  what  it  always  looks  for,  —  the  picture  of 
a  poet  in  poverty! 

"  The  failure  of  Uncle  Walt  to  accompany  my 
aunt  and  uncle  to  the  country,  occasioned,  however, 
no  breach  between  them.  He  was  a  constant  recipi- 
ent of  their  kindness ;  my  aunt  constantly  visited 
Uncle  Walt,  carrying  him  delicacies,  and  made  with 
her  own  hands  his  invalid's  garments.  Neither  George 
Whitman  nor  *  Jeff '  would  have  allowed  Walt  to 


APPENDIX  315 

suffer.  And  while  *  Uncle  Walt '  received  whatever 
was  offered  to  him,  he  gave  as  freely.  Whenever  I 
visited  him,  his  first  thought  was  always  what  he 
could  give  me,  and  I  still  have  a  copy  of  his  poems 
which  he  fished  out  for  me  one  day  from  the  masses 
of  papers  and  books  on  his  table,  and  in  which  he 
wrote  my  name. 

"  His  acceptance  of  money  from  his  friends  was 
like  that  of  a  little  child  who  takes  whatever  is  of- 
fered to  it,  never  doubting  the  propriety  of  doing  so." 

Page  27,  note.  Miss  Charlotte  E.  Morgan,  in  the 
English  Graduate  Record  of  Columbia  University 
(vol.  iii,  no.  2),  points  out  that  the  Columbian 
Magazine  printed  four  of  Whitman's  sketches  during 
1844 :  Eris :  A  Spirit  Record,  in  March,  Dumb 
Kate :  The  Story  of  an  Early  Death,  in  May,  The 
Little  Sleighers,  in  September,  and  The  Child  and 
the  Profligate,  in  October.  All  of  these  but  The 
Little  Sleighers  were  reprinted  in  The  Brooklyn 
Eagle.  Miss  Morgan  also  gives  two  poems,  Each 
Has  His  Grief  and  The  Punishment  of  Pride,  origi- 
nally printed  in  The  New  World  in  1841. 

Page  35,  line  9.  Miss  Charlotte  E.  Morgan  finds 
that  this  article  in  the  Broadway  Journal  was  enti- 
tled Art  Singing  and  Heart  Singing.  It  appeared 
on  Saturday,  November  29,  1845. 

Page  43,  line  19.  Professor  George  R.  Carpenter 
kindly  informs  me  that  Whitman's  work  upon  the 
Crescent  began  with  the  first  issue,  March  6,  1848, 
and  that  he  left  New  Orleans  on  May  26,  1848. 

Page  44,  line  25.    In  the  first  edition  this  pas- 


316  WALT  WHITMAN 

sage  read :  "  he  was  troubled  by  some  lines,  and  his 
familiarity  with  certain  passages  of  Greek  literature 
increased  his  discomfort.  He  wrote  to  Whitman  ex- 
pressing concern,  and  Whitman,  shocked  at  a  misin- 
terpretation of  which  he  had  not  dreamed,"  etc. 
That  wording  conveyed,  I  fear,  a  somewhat  mislead- 
ing impression  as  to  the  motive  for  the  correspond- 
ence. 

Page  78,  line  14.  Mr.  Laurens  Maynard  reminds 
me  that  the  change  of  title  from  Walt  Whitman  to 
Song  of  Myself  was  not  made  until  the  seventh  edi- 
tion (1881),  instead  of  the  "third,"  as  I  first  stated. 

Page  124,  line  4.  In  the  first  edition,  this  passage 
read  "  slender  fortune,"  for  which  "  small  savings  "  is 
now  substituted.  I  did  not  then  know  that  the  amount 
concerned  was  but  $200.  This  is  the  so-called  "  Par- 
ton  incident."  I  state  the  facts  as  they  were  given 
to  me  by  the  late  E.  C.  Stedman,  a  friend  of  both 
men,  who  had  taken  exceptional  pains  to  ascertain  the 
truth;  but  I  was  not  aware,  until  after  the  publica- 
tion of  the  first  edition,  that  the  incident  had  already 
given  rise  to  so  much  discussion.  Since  then,  many 
documents  bearing  upon  it  have  been  placed  in  my 
hands.  To  accuse  Whitman  of  dishonesty,  deliberate 
or  otherwise,  was  not  my  intention.  I  simply  took 
one  instance  of  a  case  where  Whitman  —  like  Gold- 
smith and  many  another  honored  and  beloved  man  of 
letters  —  borrowed  money  and  had  no  cash  where- 
with to  meet  the  loan  when  it  was  due.  At  least  one 
other  perfectly  authenticated  instance  of  his  failure 
to  repay  a  loan  might  have  been  given.  It  was  char- 


APPENDIX  317 

acteristic  of  Whitman  that  he  persuaded  himself  that 
some  chattels  (pictures)  offered  in  satisfaction  of  the 
Parton  claim  were  a  full  equivalent  for  the  debt.  He 
explained  his  version  of  the  transaction  in  a  letter  to 
W.  D.  O'Connor  (now  in  the  hands  of  Mr.  Horace 
Traubel)  and  inclosed  a  receipt  in  settlement,  appar- 
ently given  to  him  by  Dyer,  Parton's  friend  and 
lawyer.  At  least,  so  I  am  told  by  persons  who  have 
read  the  letter,  which  I  have  not  been  permitted  to 
see.  On  the  other  hand  I  have  abundant  written  tes- 
timony from  the  Partons  that  the  chattels  offered  were 
worthless  and  that  the  debt  was  never  paid  during 
Parton's  lifetime.  He  died  in  1891.  As  far  as  I  am 
able  to  sift  this  conflicting  evidence,  the  case  seems 
to  turn  upon  the  comparative  veracity  of  Parton  and 
Whitman.  It  should  be  added  that  Whitman  grew 
more  careful  in  money  matters  as  he  grew  older ;  and 
that  even  in  his  impecunious  Pfaff  period  there  was 
something  endearing  in  his  willingness  to  share  the 
pocketbook  of  a  friend.  Compare  the  sentence  from 
Miss  Dowe's  letter,  already  quoted  :  "  His  acceptance 
of  money  from  his  friends  was  like  that  of  a  little 
child  who  takes  whatever  is  offered  to  it,  never  doubt- 
ing the  propriety  of  doing  so." 

Page  135,  line  6.  The  first  edition  read  "  surly  " 
for  "silent."  See  Miss  Dowe's  letter,  previously 
quoted. 

Page  244,  line  9.  This  child,  who  died  at  the  age 
of  eight  months,  was  an  only  one. 

Page  245,  line  26.  I  have  modified  the  somewhat 
severe  judgment,  expressed  in  the  first  edition,  as  to 


318  WALT  WHITMAN 

Mrs.  Davis's  abilities  as  a  housekeeper.  My  inform- 
ants were  women.  But  one  of  Mrs.  Davis's  friends, 
Elizabeth  Keller,  who  nursed  Whitman  in  his  last  ill- 
ness, writes  me  that  such  criticisms  are  unjust  to  Mrs. 
Davis.  The  picturesque  detail  of  the  "  lace  collar," 
which  was  impressed  upon  several  of  Whitman's 
callers,  is  thus  interestingly  accounted  for  by  the 
nurse  :  — 

"  Mr.  Whitman  had  six  old  shirts  when  I  went 
there.  Mrs.  Davis  had  made  them  some  years  before. 
They  were  of  unbleached  cotton.  On  the  collar  and 
cuffs  of  one  was  a  little  lace.  He  wore  this  shirt  when 
he  made  his  last  appearance  in  New  York  City,  and 
the  Tribune  next  morning  commented  upon  it  in 
pleasant  words.  The  old  shirts  that  Mrs.  Davis  had 
patched  and  repatched  gave  out  while  I  was  there, 
and  Mrs.  D.  made  three  more,  furnishing  the  goods 
out  of  her  own  pocket." 

Page  271,  line  3.  In  the  first  edition  this  passage 
ran  :  "  Many  friends  who  contributed,  out  of  slen- 
der means,  to  his  weekly  support —  since  his  brother 
George  proved  unwilling  to  help  him  —  were  sur- 
prised," etc.  The  word  "support"  was  misleading, 
as  Whitman  did  not  lack  the  bare  necessities  of  life. 
But  he  did  need  the  comforts  and  the  nursing  which 
were  now  provided  for  him.  Thomas  B.  Harned, 
Esq.,  of  Philadelphia,  one  of  Whitman's  executors, 
has  written  me  as  follows  (December  22,  1906)  con- 
cerning the  statements  made  in  the  passage  under 
question :  — 

"The  above  statement  is  untrue  and  misleading. 


APPENDIX  319 

No  one  ever  contributed  to  Whitman's  <  weekly  sup- 
port '  at  any  time,  so  far  as  I  have  been  able  to  as- 
certain,—  and  I  have  access  to  original  sources  of 
information  going  back  more  than  forty  years.  He 
not  only  always  supported  himself,  but  the  evidence 
is  conclusive  that  he  regularly  contributed  to  the  sup- 
port of  his  Mother  and  other  members  of  his  family. 
His  income,  however  small,  was  always  sufficient  to 
cover  his  frugal  needs  and  expenditures.  His  brother 
George  was  not  '  unwilling  to  help  him  '  and,  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  was  not  asked  to  do  so.  Three  years 
before  he  died,  he  became  very  ill  and  we  thought 
the  end  was  near  and  we  telegraphed  to  Dr.  Bucke 
in  Canada.  After  he  rallied,  Dr.  Bucke  told  me  and 
Traubel  that  it  would  be  absolutely  necessary  to  sup- 
ply him  with  a  trained  nurse.  We  knew  at  that  time 
that  Whitman  had  money  in  bank  and  we  also  knew 
the  purpose  that  he  desired  to  have  it  used  for.  We 
also  knew  that  Whitman's  condition  was  such  that 
with  proper  attention  he  might  live  for  years  and 
that  this  additional  expense  would  be  considerable. 
Whitman  did  not  have  a  sum  of  money  that  would 
justify  such  an  extraordinary  expenditure.  It  was 
only  by  tact  and  persuasion  that  we  finally  induced 
him  to  accept.  He  protested  that  it  was  unnecessary 
and  that  he  preferred  to  continue  to  take  his  chances 
on  living  and  dying  as  theretofore.  For  a  period  of 
three  years  and  until  his  death  a  fund  was  raised  and 
used  for  this  purpose  only.  It  was  not  used  for  Whit- 
man's support,  and  he  continued  to  support  himself 
so  far  as  ordinary  household  expenses  were  concerned, 


320  WALT  WHITMAN 

until  his  death.  During  this  period  we  had  skilled 
nurses  and  sometimes  day  and  night  nurses,  and 
thereby  Whitman  received  every  care  and  comfort  — 
which  undoubtedly  prolonged  his  life.  To  this  fund 
some  of  his  friends  in  England  and  this  country  con- 
tributed. I  am  not  aware  that  any  of  them  were  of 
*  slender  means.'  For  a  time  I  was  treasurer  of  the 
fund,  and  afterwards  Traubel  had  charge  of  it.  We 
have  a  list  of  the  contributors  and  they  include  names 
of  men  of  worldwide  fame  and  some  of  them  of  very 
large  means.  I  do  not  believe  in  a  single  instance  the 
amount  contributed  was  a  burden  on  the  contributor. 
They  gave  freely  and  gladly,  and,  as  I  have  said  be- 
fore, the  money  was  used  for  the  above  single  purpose. 

"  With  regard  to  the  tomb  in  Harleigh  Cemetery, 
the  lot  upon  which  it  was  built  was  literally  forced 
upon  him  by  the  managers  of  the  cemetery.  A  stone 
mason  called  at  Whitman's  house  and  impressed  him 
with  the  idea  that  he  could  build  him  a  rough  tomb 
for  a  few  hundred  dollars  and  obtained  an  order  to 
build  it.  Shortly  before  Whitman's  death  he  was 
handed  an  extraordinary  bill  for  the  tomb.  I  knew 
that  he  had  been  imposed  upon  and  I  took  charge  of 
the  matter  and  relieved  Whitman  from  all  further 
anxiety.  I  do  not  feel  called  upon  to  make  any  fur- 
ther statement  with  regard  to  the  tomb  except  to  pro- 
tect the  memory  of  Whitman  against  the  statement 
that  he  deliberately  incurred  so  large  an  expenditure. 
He  built  the  tomb  as  much  for  his  family  as  for  him- 
self. His  mother,  father,  and  brothers  are  buried  there. 

"  With  regard  to  the  money  in  bank  at  the  time  of 


APPENDIX  321 

his  death,  I  am  not  aware  that  anybody  in  the  world 
supposed  that  Whitman  was  penniless.  The  exact 
contrary  was  always  avowed  by  not  only  himself  but 
his  friends.  It  was  known  that  he  owned  the  Cam- 
den  house  and  that  he  had  received  money  from 
royalties  as  well  as  from  special  gifts  from  friends 
such  as  Col.  Ingersoll,  who  handed  him  the  proceeds 
of  his  lecture  on  *  Liberty  in  Literature.'  As  before 
stated,  he  did  not  have  such  an  amount  of  money  as 
would  have  enabled  him  to  make  the  extraordinary 
expenditures  aforesaid.  He  ,did  endeavor  to  accumu- 
late some  money  for  the  purpose  of  providing  for  the 
support  of  his  imbecile  brother  Eddie,  who  had  been 
for  some  years  in  an  institution.  Whitman  had  al- 
ways contributed  one  half  of  the  cost  of  his  support, 
and  his  darling  wish  was  that  this  brother  should  be 
provided  for  against  all  peradventure.  If  you  will 
examine  his  will,  you  will  find  that  he  left  his  money 
for  this  purpose.  At  that  time  it  was  thought  that 
Eddie  would  live  for  many,  many  years,  but  he  died 
within  a  year  or  two  after  Walt's  death  and  the 
money  went  to  his  heirs.  I  regret  very  much  that  I 
could  not  have  explained  these  matters  to  you  before 
you  printed  your  book.  In  the  light  of  the  above  sit- 
uation, you  will  readily  admit  that  the  statements  in 
your  book  are  extremely  mischievous." 

In  spite  of  the  incredulity  of  Whitman's  executors, 
I  feel  bound  to  add  that  conversations,  during  1907, 
with  several  surviving  contributors  to  the  fund  con- 
firm me  in  the  statement  as  to  their  "  surprise  "  at 
the  amount  of  Whitman's  property. 


322  WALT   WHITMAN 

Page  278,  line  24.  In  the  first  edition  this  passage 
ran  :  "  Each  man  wrote  superbly  about  paternity,  and 
each  deserted  his  own  children.  No  doubt  both  men 
repented  bitterly,  since  both  were  naturally  tender- 
hearted." Several  admirers  of  Whitman,  and  espe- 
cially Laurens  Maynard  and  Dr.  Wiksell,  have  urged 
me  to  alter  the  harsh  word  "  deserted,"  in  view  of  our 
present  ignorance  of  the  precise  facts,  and  I  agree 
with  these  friendly  critics  in  thinking  that  more  ex- 
plicit language  is  preferable.  Students  of  recent  Rous- 
seau literature  may  be  tempted  to  push  this  curious 
parallel  even  further.  Mrs.  Frederica  Macdonald 
(Jean- Jacques  Rousseau,  London,  1906)  and  M. 
Jules  Lemaitre  (Jean- Jacques  Rousseau,  Paris,  1907; 
compare  also  M.  Edouard  Rod's  comment  upon  these 
books  in  the  Revue  des  Deux  Mondes  for  May  1, 
1907)  are  inclined  to  the  opinion  that  Rousseau's 
whole  story  about  sending  his  children  to  the  found- 
ling asylum  was  due  to  an  hallucination,  and  that  as 
a  matter  of  fact  there  were  no  children  to  send.  Some 
of  Whitman's  friends  still  hold  to  a  corresponding 
belief  that  his  letter  to  Symonds  and  his  statements  to 
one  of  his  executors  were  based  upon  the  same  sort 
of  hallucination.  Although  I  do  not  personally  share 
this  view,  future  students  of  Whitman  may  have  to 
reckon  with  it.  I  venture  to  quote  from  a  letter  re- 
cently (1907)  addressed  to  me  from  a  well-known 
admirer  and  correspondent  of  the  poet :  — 

"  I  don't  believe  in  those  '  children.'  For  reasons, 
of  course,  precisely  opposite  to  those  put  forward  by 
.  The  real  psychology  of  Walt  Whitman  would 


APPENDIX  323 

be  enormously  interesting.  I  think  the  key-note  to  it 
would  be  found  to  be  a  staggering  ignorance,  or  per- 
haps willful  non-perception,  of  the  real  physical  con- 
ditions of  his  nature.  But  the  truth  about  him  (the 
innermost  truth)  escapes  from  almost  every  page  for 
those  who  can  read."  Compare  Lemaitre's  Jean- 
Jacques  Rousseau,  page  59,  concerning  "  la  fable  des 
cinq  enfani." 


INDEX 


INDEX 


ALCOTT,  A.  BBOWSON,  visits  Whit- 
man, 119. 

Aldrich,  Thomas  Bailey,  271. 

Alexander,  J.  W.,  paints  portrait  of 
Whitman,  246. 

Alger,  William  R.,  Oriental  Poetry. 
276. 

American  poet,  task  of  the,  75. 

American  Revieiv,  the,  tales  by 
Whitman  in,  26. 

Antislavery  movement,  Whitman's 
interest  in,  32,  38,  48. 

Arnold,  Sir  Edwin,  guest  of  Whit- 
man, 248. 

Arnold,  Matthew,  260,  262  ;  letter  to 
O'Connor  about  Whitman,  177- 
179. 

Ashby,  Mrs.,  widow  of  Gen.  Turner 
Ashby,  146. 

Ashton,  J.  H.,  secures  Whitman  a 
clerkship  in  attorney-general's 
office,  165. 

Astor,  John  Jacob,  13. 

Aurora,  The  Daily,  edited  by  Whit- 
man, 22. 

Barrett,  Wilson,  250. 

Baxter,  Sylvester,  tries  to  get  pension 
for  Whitman,  25. 

Benjamin,  Park,  prints  Whitman's 
novel,  Franklin  Evans,  in  the  New 
World,  27. 

Bentzon,  Th.  (Madame  Blanc), 
writes  on  Whitman  in  the  Revue 
des  Deux  Mondes,  198. 

Bhagavad-Gita,  the,  and  Leaves  of 
Grass,  276  n. 

Bible,  the  English,  influence  on 
Whitman's  style,  96,  276,  283. 

Binns,  Henry  Bryan,  Walt  Whit- 
man, 133  n.,  219  n. 

Bjornson,  Bjornstjerne,  on  Whit- 
man, 198. 

Blair,  Hugh,  on  Macpherson's  Os- 
sian,  90. 

Blake,  Harrison  G.  O.,  letter  of 
Thoreau  to,  about  Whitman,  120. 

Blake,  William,  79,  88  ;  Swinburne 
compares  Whitman  and,  186,  187. 


Blood-Money,  antislavery  poem  by 
Whitman,  32,  33. 

Boker,  George  H.,  250,  251. 

Booth,  Edwin,  250,  262. 

Brinton,  Daniel  G.,  speaks  at  Whit- 
man's funeral,  271. 

Brooklyn  Eitfjle,  the,  edited  by 
Whitman,  40. 

Brooklyn  Freeman,  the,  launched 
by  Whitman,  48. 

Brother  Jonathan,  Whitman's  con- 
tributions to,  26,  30. 

Brown,  F.  Madox,  lends  Mrs.  Gil- 
christ  Whitman's  poems,  188. 

Brush,  Hannah.    See  Whitman. 

Bryant,  William  Cullen,  relations 
with  Whitman,  119. 

Buchanan,  Robert,  writes  about 
American  neglect  of  Whitman, 
216  ;  rejoinder  of  G.  W.  Curtis, 
218. 

Bucke,  Dr.  Richard  Maurice,  bio- 
grapher of  Whitman,  2  n.,  52  n.,  70 
n.,  132.  265,  270,  271,  291  ;  his 
Walt  Whitman,  166  n.,  232  n.,  233 
n.,  236,  239  ;  a  mystic,  222 ;  first 
meeting  with  Whitman,  223;  one 
of  Whitman's  literary  executors, 
223,  250  ;  entertains  Whitman  in 
Canada,  224. 

Bunce  and  Huntington,  publishers 
of  O'Connor's  Good  Gray  Poet. 
166  n.,  174. 

Bunner,  H.  C.,  as  a  parodist  of 
Whitman,  286. 

Burroughs,  John,  39,  55,  57  n.,  212, 
223,  245  ;  friendship  with  Whit- 
man begun,  160  ;  publishes  Notes 
on  Walt  Whitman  as  Poet  and 
Person,  180  ;  his  judgment  of 
Whitman,  182,  300  n. 

Caird,  Edward,  quoted,  273. 
Cairns,  William,  on  Ruskiu's  "  prose 

poetry,"  84,  85. 
Calamus,  Whitman's  letters  to  Peter 

Doyle,  44,  126,  160,  161,  162. 
Calder,     Mrs.  Ellen    M.   (formerly 

Mrs.  W.  D.  O'Connor),  149, 159. 


328 


INDEX 


Camden,  N.  J.,  George  Whitman's 
home,  210,  21 1  ;  Walt  settles  there, 
214  ;  and  finally  buys  a  house, 
245. 

Camden's  Compliments  to  Walt 
Whitman,  254  n.,  288  n. 

Carlyle,  Thomas,  influence  on  Whit- 
man, 225,  226;  Whitman's  rev- 
erie at  time  of  Carlyle's  death, 
226. 

Carnegie,  Andrew,  252,  253. 

Carpenter,  Edward,  285  ;  Days  with 
Walt  Whitman,  45  ;  visits  Whit- 
man at  Camden,  222. 

Cauldwell,  William,  describes  Whit- 
man,  22,  23. 

Chamiing,  William  F.,  recom- 
mended by  Emerson  to  buy  Leaves 
of  Grass,  98  n. 

Chase,  Salmon  P.,  declines  to  ap- 
point Whitman  to  office  because 
of  his  "  notorious  "  book,  144. 

Chesterton,  G.  K.,  on  pleasTire,  47. 

Childs,  George  W.,  aids  Whitman 
with  a  loan,  245. 

Clarke,  Edward,  early  friend  of 
Whitman,  14. 

Clemens,  Samuel  L.  ("  Mark 
Twain"),  251,  253. 

Cold  Spring,  N.  Y.,  1,  3,  5. 

Cone,  Helen  Gray,  "  Narcissus  in 
Oainden,"  249  n. 

Coney  Island,  one  of  Whitman's  re- 
sorts, 36. 

Conservator,  The,  250. 

Con  way,  Moncure  D.,  185  ;  visits 
Whitman,  119  ;  praises  him  in 
Fortnightly  Review,  18  n. 

Cooper,  J.  Fenimore,  admired  by 
Whitman,  2G1. 

Corson,  Prof.  Hiram,  comments  of 
Whitman  on,  262. 

Culpeper,  Va.,  144-146. 

Curtis,  George  William,  quoted, 
158 ;  letters  to  O'Connor  about 
Whitman  and  The  Good  Gray 
Poet,  172-175 ;  rejoinder  to  Rob- 
ert Buchanan,  218,  219. 

Dana,  Charles  A.,  contrasted  with 
Whitman,  64,  65 ;  advises  Whit- 
man to  use  Emerson's  commenda- 
tion, 114. 

Dartmouth  College,  Whitman  de- 
livers Commencement  Poem  at, 
203-210. 

Davis,  Mrs.  Mary,  Whitman's  house- 
keeper in  Camden,  245. 

Democratic  Review,  the,  Whitman's 
contributions  to,  23-25. 


Democratic  Vistas,  192,  225;  argu- 
ment of,  195-197  ;  translated  into 
Danish,  198  ;  Whitman's  aim  in, 
200 ;  quoted,  273. 

Dickens,  Charles,  defended  by 
Whitman,  26. 

Dixon,  Thomas,  friend  of  Ruskin, 
183. 

Donaldson,  ThomaB,  249,  251 ;  Walt 
Whitman,  the  Man,  138, 194, 251  n. 

Dowden,  Edward,  183, 217,  2t8  ;  con- 
tributes to  Westminster  Review  a 
notable  article  on  Whitman,  197  ; 
Whitman's  first  letter  to,  198-203. 

Doyle,  Peter,  67  ;  Whitman's  inti- 
macy with  161,  163,  182,  192,  205, 
212,  215,  272;  his  testimony  as  to 
Whitman's  habits,  162  ;  Whit- 
man's letters  to,  printed  in  Cal- 
amus, 162. 

Drum-Taps,  133,  143,  149;  Trow- 
bridge  tries  to  find  a  publisher  for, 
144  ;  Whitman's  opinion  of,  150, 
151 ;  first  edition  printed  at  his 
expense,  154  ;  Sequel  to,  154  ;  em- 
bodies the  spirit  of  the  war,  155, 
156. 

Eakins,  Thomas,  paints  portrait  of 
Whitman,  246. 

Eldridge,  Charles  W.,  one  of  Whit- 
man's publishers,  126,  127  ;  clerk 
in  army  paymaster's  office,  135  ; 
letters  from  Whitman,  142,  192, 
252;  in  internal  revenue  office, 
159. 

Emerson,  Ralph  Waldo,  rhythm  in 
his  Essays,  84 ;  letter  to  Whitman 
about  Leaves  of  Grass,  99  ;  Whit- 
man's misuse  of  the  letter,  114- 
118  ;  visits  Whitman,  119,  128  ; 
writes  Carlyle  about  Leaves  of 
Grass,  122 ;  sends  Whitman 
money  for  destitute  soldiers,  137, 
138  ;  comments  of  Whitman  on, 
202,  234,  237  ;  gives  dinner  to 
Whitman,  230,  231 ;  characteriza- 
tion of  Leaves  of  Grass,  276  n. 

Farnam,  C.  H.,  Descendants  of  John 
Whitman  cited,  2  n. 

Florence,  William  J.,  250. 

Fowler  and  Wells,  publish  second 
edition  of  Leaves  of  Grass,  111  ; 
afterward  refuse  to  sell  it,  118. 

Fox,  George,  compared  with  Shake- 
speare, 257. 

Franklin  Evans,  Whitman's  novel, 
27,28. 

Freiligratb,  Ferdinand,    writes  of 


INDEX 


329 


Whitman  mAllgcmcine  Zeitung, 
197. 
Furness,  H.  H.,  251. 

Garrick,  David,  used  to  write  no- 
tices of  his  own  plays,  105. 

Garrison,  William  Lloyd,  38. 

Gilchrist,  Alexander,  188. 

Gilchribt,  Mrs.  Anne,  19  ;  first  reads 
Whitman's  poems,  188-190;  writes 
"  A  Woman's  Estimate  of  Walt 
Whitman,"  1'JO  ;  lives  in  Phila- 
delphia, 190,  222. 

Gilchriat,  Grace,  19. 

Gilchrist,  Herbert,  Life  of  Anne 
Gilchrist,  190  n. ;  paints  portrait 
of  Whitman,  '240. 

Gilder,  Richard  Watson,  251,  2G2, 
271  ;  admires  Whitman's  literary 
form,  288. 

Godey.  Walter,  Whitman's  office 
substitute,  215. 

Good-Bye,  my  Fancy,  258. 

Good  Gray  Poet,  The,  O'Connor's 
pamphlet,  166-171,  236. 

Gosse,  Edmund,  248  ;  quoted,  304  n. 

Grant,  Ulysses  S.,  Whitman's  con- 
fidence in,  147. 

Hale,  Edward  Everett,  reviews 
Leaves  of  Grass,  101. 

Hale,  John  P.,  38. 

Hapgood,  Major,  gives  Whitman 
employment  in  Washington,  135. 

Harlan,  Secretary  James,  dismisses 
Whitman  from  Indian  office,  165. 

Harleigh  Cemetery,  Whitman's  bur- 
ial place,  271. 

Harned,  Thomas  B.,  one  of  Whit- 
man's literary  executors,  250,  254, 
271. 

Harrison,  G.,  73,  74. 

Haweis,  Rev.  H.  R.,  248. 

Hay,  John,  aids  Whitman,  141,  142. 

Hearn,  Lafcadio,  letter  to  O'Connor 
about  Whitman,  239-244. 

Hicks,  Elias,  Quaker  preacher,  45 ; 
Whitman's  sketch  of,  256,  257. 

Higginson,  T.  W.,  quoted,  63,64. 

Bine,  Charles,  paints  portrait  of 
Whitman,  126. 

Holmes,  Oliver  Wendell,  251. 

Hotten,  John  Camden,  185 ;  pub- 
lishes Rossetti's  Poemt  of  Walt 
Whitman,  187  n. 

Hough  ton.  Lord,  248. 

Howells,  William  Dean,  makes  Whit- 
man'* acquaintance  at  Pfaff's,  129. 

Hugo,  Victor,  considered  bombastic 
by  Whitman,  2GO. 


Hunt,  Leigh,  published  criticism*  of 

his  own  work,  105,  106. 
Huntington,    N.    Y.,  birthplace   of 

Whitman,  1-3,  7,  8,  17,  228. 

Ibsen,  Henrik,  quoted,  273. 

In  Be  Walt  Whitman,  cited,  49,  98, 

112,  190,  250,  255,  250. 
Ingersoll,  Col.  Robert  G.,  86  ;  warm 

friendship   with    Whitman,    249, 

255,  260,  271. 
Irving,  Henry,  guest   of  Whitman, 

248. 

James,  William,  Varieties  of  Reli- 
gious Experience,  223  n. 

Johnson,  Dr.  Samuel,  Whitman's 
judgment  of,  200. 

Johnston,  J.  H.,  New  York  friend 
of  Whitman,  222,  252. 

Keats,  John,  ode  "  To  Autumn," 
303,  307. 

Kennedy,  William  Sloane,  his  Rem- 
iniscences of  Walt  WMtman,Wl; 
an  active  friend  of  Whitman,  249, 
252. 

Lafayette,  Marquis,  12,  13. 

Leaves  of  Grass,  67-131;  quoted,  1, 
11,  12,  21,  37  ;  its  origins,  46,  47  ; 
Whitman  sets  the  type  with  his 
own  hands,  68 ;  in  no  sense  an  im- 
promptu, 68  ;  its  purpose,  68,  77, 
151,  274  ;  physical  appearance  of 
first  edition,  73  ;  importance  of 
its  preface,  74;  subject  of  the 
poem,  78, 79 ;  comment  of  Thoreau 
on,  80 ;  eccentricities  of  form, 
81-83,  282-287  ;  general  rhythmic 
type,  83;  its  "prose  poetry," 
84  ;  oratorical  effects,  85,  86  ;  in- 
debtedness to  music,  86 ;  literary 
parallels  to  its  structure,  91-95  ; 
influence  of  the  English  Bible,  96, 
283  ;  its  superb  declamation,  96, 
97  ;  first  two  editions  bore  no 
publisher's  imprint,  97, 113  ;  small 
sale,  98, 113  ;  praised  by  Emerson, 
99;  but  not  by  most  other  Ameri- 
can men  of  letters,  100  ;  divergent 
reviews,  100-105;  friendly  criti- 
cism of  Edward  Everett  Hale,  101 ; 
compared  with  Tennyson's  Maud, 
101,  111 ;  Whitman's  own  reviews 
of  the  book.  105-112  ;  second  edi- 
tion isfiii«d  (1856)  by  Fowler  and 
Wells,  113,  114  ;  offensive  use  of 
Emerson's  words  of  praise,  114- 
118;  Fowler  and  Wells  refuse  to 


330 


INDEX 


•ell  the  book,  118 ;  Emerson  writes 
Carlyle  about,  122  ;  third  edition 
issued  (1860)  by  Thayer  and  El- 
dridge,  126;  contains  new  por- 
trait, 126  ;  good  sales,  126 ;  fourth 
edition  (1866),  180,  186;  fifth  edi- 
tion (1871),  194;  sixth  edition, 
the  Centennial  (1876),  217  ;  Sartor 
Resartus  one  of  its  seed-books, 
225 ;  definitive  edition  issued  by 
James  R.  Osgopd  &  Co.,  229  ;  sup- 
pressed by  Society  for  the  Suppres- 
sion of  Vice,  231;  plates  trans- 
ferred to  Rees,  Welsh  &  Co.,  232  ; 
eighth  edition  (1889),  258  ;  char- 
acterized by  Emerson,  '276  ;  a  pro- 
duct of  Transcendentalism,  281  ; 
indebted  to  the  Old  Testament, 
283  ;  translations  of,  284  ;  strange- 
ness of  its  form,  282-287  ;  its  gos- 
pel of  nudity,  288-290  ;  its  radical 
defect,  304-306. 

Leaves  of  Grass  Imprints,  100  n., 
112  n. 

Leeds,  Rev.  Dr.  Samuel  P.,  Dart- 
mouth College  pastor,  205. 

Lincoln,  Abraham,  Whitman's  im- 
pressions of,  140,  147,  153 ;  shot, 
154  ;  Whitman's  poems  on,  154- 
157  ;  remark  on  first  seeing  Whit- 
man, 166,  169 ;  memorial  address 
on,  224,  227,  251,  252,  255. 

Long  Is/and  Patriot,  Whitman 
learns  type-setting  in  office  of,  14, 
15. 

Long  Islander,  the,  Whitman's  first 
real  venture,  17,  18. 

Longfellow,  Henry  Wadsworth, 
quoted,  214;  visits  Whitman,  and 
later  entertains  him,  228  ;  Whit- 
man's characterization  of,  234. 

Lowell,  James  Russell,  25;  con- 
trasted with  Whitman,  64,  65; 
his  "  Commemoration  Ode  "  and 
Whitman's  "  When  Lilacs  Last 
in  the  Door-Yard  Bloora'd," 
157 ;  Whitman  indifferent  to, 
261. 

McCarthy,  Justin,  248;  Reminis- 
cences, 119  n. 

McClure, ,  engages  Whitman  for 

New  Orleans  Crescent,  41,  42. 

McKay,  David,  one  of  Whitman's 
publishers,  233,  235. 

Macpherson,  James,  Poems  of  Os- 
sian,  90. 

MacVeagh,  Wayne,  250. 

Miller,  Joaquin,  one  of  Whitman's 
correspondents,  202. 


Millet,  Jean  Francois,  his  paintings 

enjoyed  by  Whitman,  228,  264. 
Mirror,  the,  Whitman's  early  pieces 

in,  15. 

Mitchell,  Dr.  S.  Weir,  251. 
Mouahan,  Michael,  prints  example 

of  "prose  poetry,"  86. 
More,   Paul   Elmer,   writes  critical 

essay  on  Whitman,  87  n. 
Morley,  John,  guest  of  Whitman,  248. 
Morris,  George  P.,  15. 
Morris,  Harrison  S.,  249. 
Municipal   government,  Whitman's 

plea  for  better,  59-61. 
Myers,  Frederick  W.  H.,  182,  183. 

New  Orleans  Crescent,  Whitman  on 

staff  of,  41,  42. 
New  World,  the,  prints  Whitman's 

only  novel,  27. 
Norton,  Charles  Eliot,  252. 
November  Boughs,  256. 

Ocean,  influence  on  Whitman,  11, 12. 

O'Connor,  William  Douglas,  first 
meeting  with  Whitman,  127  ;  aids 
him,  134,  135,  158;  letters  of 
Whitman  to,  149-152,  237,  238, 
257  ;  described  by  Whitman,  158  ; 
his  novel,  Harrington,  a  failure, 
159  ;  assistant  superintendent  of 
the  Life-Saving  Service,  151) ;  pub- 
lishes The  Good  Gray  Poet,  166- 
171  ;  letters  from  G.  W.  Curtis, 
172-175;  from  Wendell  Phillips 
and  Henry  J.  Raymond,  176 ;  from 
Matthew  Arnold,  177  ;  his  story, 
"  The  Carpenter,"  186;  estranged 
from  Whitman,  212 ;  reconciled, 
233;  letter  from  Lafcadio  Hearn 
about  Whitman,  239  ;  fatal  illness 
and  death,  252  n.,  254. 

O'Reilly,  John  Boyle,  229,  251. 

Osgood,  James  R.,  and  Company, 
published  definitive  edition  of 
Leaves  of  Grass,  229;  forced  to 
withdraw  it,  231,232. 

Osier,  Dr.  William,  attends  Whit- 
man, 254. 

Ossian,  Poems  of,  72 ;  read  by  Whit- 
man throughout  his  life,  90. 

Pall  Mall   Gazelle  raises  fund  for 

Whitman,  251. 

Palmer,  George  Herbert,  270. 
Parker,  Theodore,  his  copy  of  Leavet 

of  Grass,  98  n. 
Pa's.mge  to  India,  194;   Whitman'? 

own  opinion  of,  195. 
Pauraauok,   Indian  name  of  Long 


INDEX 


331 


Island,  12 ;  used  by  Whitman  as 
a  pen  name,  29,  33  n. 

Pfaff's  famous  restaurant,  in  New 
York,  38,  39,  129,  131,  229. 

Phillips,  Wendell,  admired  by  Whit- 
man, 38 ;  sends  him  mouey  for 
destitute  soldiers,  138 ;  on  O'Con- 
nor's Good  Gray  Poet,  176. 

Poe,  Edgar  Allan,  style  imitated 
by  Whitman,  29;  prints  piece  by 
Whitman  in  the  Broadway  Jour- 
nal, 35. 

Poet,  the,  Whitman's  conception  of, 
75-77. 

Proctor,  Thomas,  reminiscences  of 
Whitman,  163,  164. 

Quincy,  Josiah  P.,  describes  Emer- 
son's annoyance  at  Whitman's 
misuse  of  his  praise,  114,  115. 

Raymond,  Henry  J.,  letter  to 
O'Connor,  176. 

Redpath,  James,  sends  Whitman 
money  for  destitute  soldiers,  137. 

Rees,  Welsh  &  Co.,  Philadelphia 
publishers  of  Whitman's  books, 
232,  233,  235. 

Rhodes,  James  Ford,  on  typical 
Americans,  2'JO. 

Rhys,  Ernest,  visits  Whitman,  248. 

Richardson,  Charles  F.,  gives  ac- 
count of  Whitman's  COUM 


ment  Poem  at  Dartmouth  College, 
203-205. 

Ritter,  Mrs.  Fanny  Raymond,  86. 

Roe,  Charles  A.,  recollections  of 
Whitman  as  a  teacher,  16,  17. 

Rome,  Andrew  and  James,  printers 
in  Brooklyn,  68. 

Roosa,  Dr.  D.  B.  St.  John,  writes 
interesting  account  of  Whitman 
as  nurse,  131. 

Rossetti,  William  M.,  183,  216,  217  ; 
aids  Whitman's  reputation  in  Eng- 
land, 184-186  ;  publishes  selec- 
tions from  his  poems,  187. 

Rousseau,  Jean  Jacques,  parallel- 
isms of  his  genius  and  Whitman's, 
62,  69,  266,  277-280 ;  his  Contrat 
Social,  52, 280  ;  his  Confessions  not 
liked  by  Whitman,  69,  279. 

Ruskin,  John,  "  prose  poetry  "  of, 
84,  85  ;  Whitman  writes  O'Connor 
about,  238,  239. 

St.  Gaudens,  Augustus,  253. 
Sanborn,    Frank   B.,    275  n. ;   has 
Whitman  as  guest  in  Concord,  230. 
Sandwich,  Mass.,  2. 


Sartor  Resartus,  "  prose  poetry  "  of, 
84 ;  one  of  the  seed-books  of 
Leaves  of  Grass,  225. 

Schmidt,  Rudolph,  translates  Demo- 
cratic Vistas  into  Danish,  198. 

Schumaker,  J.  G.,  on  Whitman's 
habits  and  character,  28,  38. 

Scott,  Prof.  F.  N.,  on  Whitman's 
prosody,  87,  88  n. 

Scott,  Sir  Walter,  Whitman's  fond- 
ness for  his  novels,  14,  36;  and  for 
his  poems,  15,  277. 

Scott,  William  Bell,  183,  218. 

Scudder,  Horace  E.,  sends  a  copy  of 
Drum-Taps  to  W.  M.  Rossetti,  184. 

Shakespeare,  Whitman's  criticism 
of,  260. 

Shaw,  Quincy  A.,  228. 

Shelley,  Percy  Bysshe,  contrasted 
with  Whitman,  97. 

Sidgwick,  Henry,  118. 

Skinner,  Charles  M. ,  describes  Whit- 
man's editorials,  40,  41. 

Smith,  Charles  Emory,  250. 

Smith,  R.  Pearsall.  Quaker  friend 
of  Whitman,  249,  252,  253. 

Society  for  the  Suppression  of  Vice, 
Boston,  causes  suppression  of 
Leaves  of  Grass,  231,  232. 

Specimen  Days  and  Collect,  11,  12, 
34,  221,  224;  published,  235. 

Spenser,  Edmund,  published  self- 
criticisms,  105,  106. 

Stedman,  Edmund  Clarence,  160, 
262,  271 ;  writes  on  Whitman  in 
Scribner's,  236. 

Stephen,  J.  K.,  parodist  of  Whit- 
man, 286. 

Stephens,  Oliver,  district  attorney 
at  Boston,  231,  232. 

Stevenson,  Robert  Louis,  260; 
influenced  by  Leaves  of  Grass, 
290  n. 

Stillman,  William  J.,  founder  of  the 
Crayon,  101,  192,  218. 

Stoker,  Brain,  248. 

Story,  William  Wetmore,  contrasted 
with  Whitman,  64,  65. 

Strangford,  Lord,  commends  Whit- 
man in  Pail  Mall  Gazette,  180. 

Sunmer,  Charles,  136. 

Sunday  restrictions,  Whitman's 
memorial  against,  57-59. 

Swinburne,  Algernon  Charles,  183, 
194,  260  and  «.,  274,  275,  286  ; 
opinion  of  Whitman's  "When 
Lilacs  Last  in  the  Door- Yard 
Bloom'd,"  156  ;  points  out  spirit- 
ual kinship  of  Whitman  and 
Blake,  186,  187. 


332 


INDEX 


3  win  ton,  John,  characterizes  Whit- 
man as  a  "  troglodite,"  47  ;  laughs 
at  his  attempts  to  declaim,  124. 

8ymonds,  John  Addington,  friend 
and  admirer  of  Whitman,  44,  183, 
185 ;  influence  of  Leaves  of  Grass 
on,  290  n. 

Taylor,  Bayard,  as  a  parodist  of 
Whitman,  286. 

Taylor,  "Father"  Edward,  the 
sailor  preacher,  129. 

Taylor,  Gen.  Zachary,  described  by 
Whitman,  42. 

Tennyson,  Alfred,  Maud  reviewed 
together  with  Leaves  of  Grass, 
101,  111 ;  correspondence  with 
Whitman,  193,  202. 

Thacher,  John  Boyd,  205  n. 

Thayer  and  Eldridge,  publish 
third  edition  of  Leaves  of  Grass, 
126  ;  have  financial  troubles,  130. 

Thayer,  William  Roscoe,  270, 299  n.  ; 
reads  Lowell's  "  Commemoration 
Ode  "  to  Whitman,  261. 

Thoreau,  Henry  David,  67,  96  n., 
261  ;  comment  on  Leaves  of  Grass, 
80;  visits  Whitman,  119;  writes 
to  H.  G.  O.  Blake  about  him,  120. 

Timber  Creek,  Whitman's  residence 
on,  219-222. 

Tobey,  Edward  S.,  postmaster  of 
Boston,  excludes  Leaves  of  Grass 
from  the  mails,  233. 

Transcendentalism,  American,  62- 
66. 

traubel,  Horace,  on  Whitman's 
friendships,  87  n. ;  one  of  Whit- 
man's literary  executors,  249, 250; 
With  Walt  Whitman  in  Camden, 
cited,  198,  260,  254;  edits  The 
Hook  of  Heavenly  Death,  207  n. 

Trowbridge,  John  Townsend,  rem- 
iniscences of  Whitman,  127,  128  ; 
tries  in  vain  to  find  a  publisher 
for  Drum-Taps,  144;  letters  of 
Whitman  to,  144,  147,  152. 

Tufts  College,  Whitman  writes 
Commencement  poein  for,  21  G. 

Tupper,  Martin  Farqubar,  103  ;  pop- 
ularity of  his  Proverbial  Philoso- 
phy, 90,  91. 

Tyrrell,  Prof.  Robert  Y.,  183. 

Van  Velsor,  Maj.  Cornelius,  grand- 
father of  Whitman,  5,  6. 

Van  Velsor,  Louisa,   flee  Whitman. 

Vincent,  Leon  H.,  American  Liter- 
ary Masters  cited,  16r>  n. 

Voices  from,  the  Press,  49  n. 


Warner,  Charles  Dudley,  250. 

Warren,  Samuel,  The  Lily  and  the 
Bee,  92-95. 

West  Hills,  N.  Y.,  3,  9, 10,  11.  See 
also  Huntington. 

"When  Lilacs  Last  in  the  Door- 
Yard  Bloom'd,"  Whitman's  dirge 
for  Lincoln,  154 ;  Swinburne's 
opinion  of,  156  ;  one  of  the  finest 
imaginative  products  of  the  Civil 
War  period,  157. 

Whitman,  Andrew  Jackson,  brother 
of  Walt,  9  ;  death  of,  141,  143. 

Whitman,  Edward,  youngest  bro- 
ther of  Walt,  9. 

Whitman,  George  Washington,  bro- 
ther of  Walt,  9,  48,  49,  147,  270; 
comments  on  Leaves  of  Grass,  US  ; 
wounded  at  Fredericksburg,  133, 
134;  a  captain  of  infantry,  135; 
captured  and  exchanged,  153  ;  in 
Camden,  210,  211 ;  death  of  his 
son  Walter,  244. 

Whitman,  Mrs.  Hannah  (Brush), 
grandmother  of  Walt,  4. 

Whitman,  Hannah,  Bister  of  Walt, 
210. 

Whitman,  Isaiah,  7. 

Whitman,  Jesse,  grandfather  of 
Walt,  4. 

Whitman,  Jesse,  older  brother  of 
Walt,  8  ;  dies  insane,  225. 

Whitman,  John,  ancestor  of  mo«t 
of  the  American  Whitmans,  2  n. 

Whitman,  John,  Sr.,  3. 

Whitman,  Joseph,  first  known  an- 
cestor of  Walt,  2,  3. 

Whitman,  Mrs.  Louisa  (Van  Velsor), 
mother  of  Walt,  5-7, 10, 19;  doubt- 
ful about  his  poetry,  98;  extracts 
from  letters  of  Walt  to,  133,  136, 
138,  140,  141,  148,  181,  192;  ill- 
ness and  death,  210,  211. 

Whitman,  Marcus,  7. 

Whitman,  Martha,  sister-in-law  of 
Walt,  211. 

Whitman,  Nehemiah,  great-grand- 
father of  Walt,  3,  4,  7. 

Whitman,  Mrs.  Nehemiah,  4. 

Whitman,  Stephen,  7. 

Whitman,  Thomas  Jefferson 
("  Jeff  "),  brother  of  Walt,  and 
object  of  his  special  care,  9,  141 ; 
with  Walt  in  New  Orleans,  42,  43  ; 
wife  dies,  211  ;  visited  by  Walt  in 
St.  Louis,  224. 

Whitman,  Walter,  father  of  Walt, 
4,  5,  7,  ID.  11  ;  »lwith,  98. 

Whitman,  Walt  (Walter),  birth- 
place, 1,8;  ancestry,  2-4  ;  father 


INDEX 


333 


and  mother,  4-6, 10 ;  brothers  and 
Bisters,  8,  9 ;  home  life  in  child- 
hood, 9,  10 ;  in  Brooklyn,  11  ; 
sports,  12;  kissed  by  Lafayette,  13; 
schooling,  13,  14;  early  reading, 
14,  15 ;  lawyer's  clerk,  doctor's 
clerk,  printer,  14;  first  writings, 
15  ;  teaches  school,  1C;  starts  the 
Long  Islander,  17  ;  excessive  emo- 
tional endowment,  19,  20;  be- 
comes editor  of  the  Daily  A  urora, 
22;  personal  appearance,  22,  23, 
74,  109,  110;  contributes  to  the 
Tatlfcr,  and  writes  stories  for  the 
Democratic  Review,  23;  condemns 
capital  punishment,  25;  defends 
Ch.-irlea  Dickens,  in  Brother  Jon- 
athan, 20;  writes  tales  for  the 
American  Review,  26;  writes  a 
novel  for  the  New  World,  27;  how 
the  novel  was  written,  28;  charac- 
teristics of  his  early  prose,  28,  29  ; 
his  earliest  verse,  29-33;  gains 
familiarity  with  city  life,  34,  35 ; 
influence  of  theatre  and  opera, 
35,  36, 41,  42  ;  choico  of  books,  37, 
247 ;  not  a  systematic  student,  37  ; 
no  church-goer,  38  ;  political  sym- 
pathies, 38,  41,  48,  125;  stumps 
for  Van  Buren  and  for  Polk,  38  ; 
edits  Brooklyn  Eagle,  40;  goes  to 
New  Orloans,  41 ;  returns  to  New 
York,  43;  his  children,  44-4G; 
never  a  libertine,  46,  47  ;  gray  at 
thirty,  48 ;  launches  the  Brooklyn 
Freeman,  48 ;  lecturing,  49-55  ; 
interest  in  Rousseau,  52,  69,  277  ; 
works  with  his  father  as  a  carpen- 
ter, 55  ;  writes  memorial  against 
Sunday  restrictions,  57-59;  and 
for  better  city  administration,  59- 
61  ;  contrasted  with  W.  W.  Story, 
C.  A.  Dana,  and  Lowell,  64,  65  ; 
issues  Leaves  of  Grass,  68,  97 ; 
some  notebook  entries,  69,  70, 
88  ;  rules  for  composition,  71,  72  ; 
ideas  in  regard  to  style,  71,  72  ; 
steel  engraving  of,  in  Leaves  of 
Grass,  73,  74 ;  his  conception  of 
the  poet,  75-77  ;  his  indebtedness 
to  music,  86  ;  analyzes  his  own 
metrical  system,  87 ;  impatient 
of  the  restraints  of  formal  art, 
88  ;  admired  Ossian,  90 ;  reception 
of  first  edition  of  Leaves  of  Grass, 
97-105  ;  Transcendental  strain 
in,  103;  writes  notices  of  Leaves 
of  Grass,  105-112;  describes  him- 
self, 109,  110  ;  offends  Emerson, 
114,  115 ;  has  distinguished  visit- 


ors, 119  ;  his  manner  and  habits, 
123 ;  borrows  money  and  specu- 
lates, 123,  124 ;  plans  to  become 
a  lecturer,  124  ;  composed  with 
extreme  care,  125 ;  portrait  by 
Hine,  126;  temporary  residence 
in  Boston,  127 ;  makes  warm 
friends  there,  127  ;  conversation 
with  Emerson,  128;  becomes  vol- 
unteer nurse  among  New  York 
stage-drivers,  131,  134;  goes 
to  Falmouth,  Va.,  to  care  for 
his  brother  George,  134  ;  has  his 
pocket  picked  in  Philadelphia, 
134 ;  remains  in  Washington  with 
wounded  soldiers,  135-142  ;  em- 
ployed in  army  paymaster's  of- 
fice, 135  :  his  working  theory  as 
a  nurse,  139  ;  visits  his  mother, 
141,  142,  192;  letter  to  C.  W. 
Eldridge,  142;  letters  to  J.  T. 
Trowbridge,  144,  147  ;  refused  an 
office  by  Secretary  Chase  because 
he  had  written  a  "notorious" 
book,  144;  health  giveaway,  148  ; 
returns  to  Brooklyn,  149  ;  writes 
O'Connor  about  Drum-Taps,  149- 
151;  in  Washington  hospitals 
again,  152,  155;  gets  clerkship  in 
Indian  Bureau,  153  ;  issues  Drum- 
Taps  and  writes  his  great  poems 
on  Lincoln,  154 ;  friendship  with 
John  Burroughs  begun,  160 ; 
intimacy  with  Peter  Doyle,  161- 
163  ;  dismissed  by  Secretary  Har- 
lan,  164,  165;  gets  clerkship  in 
attorney-general's  office,  165  ;  be- 
gins to  save  money,  181 ;  Eng- 
lish friends,  183,  184  ;  selections 
from  his  poems  published  by 
Rossetti,  187, 188 ;  correspondence 
with  Tennyson,  193,  202  ;  writes 
poem  for  American  Institute  Ex- 
hibition, 194;  publishes  Demo- 
cratic Vistas,  195-197  ;  foreign  re- 
cognition, 197,  198;  first  letter 
to  Edward  Dowden,  198-203; 
delivers  Commencement  poem 
at  Dartmouth  College,  203-210  ; 
reviews  it  himself,  206-210; 
partially  paralyzed,  210  ;  death  of 
his  mother,  211  ;  his  reticence, 
212,  213,  270 ;  becomes  a  semi- 
invalid,  215 ;  but  composes  verse 
occasionally,  215 ;  writes  poem 
for  Tufts  College  Commencement, 
216;  distinguished  subscribers  to 
sixth  edition  of  his  works,  217, 218; 
outdoor  life  on  Timber  Creek, 
219-222 ;  memorial  address  on  Lin- 


334 


INDEX 


coin,  224, 227, 251, 252, 255 ;  makes 
journey  to  Rocky  Mountains,  224; 
visits  Dr.  Bucke  in  Canada,  224, 
2'25  ;  revisits  hie  birthplace,  228  ; 
James  R.  Osgood  &  Co.  issue  de- 
finitive edition  of  Leaves  of  6'ra.vs, 
221) ;  significant  hospitalities  in 
Boston  and  vicinity,  '230;  Leaves 
of  Gi'ass  suppressed  in  Boston, 
231,  232  ;  but  reissued  in  Phila- 
delphia, 233  ;  comments  on  Long- 
fellow and  Emerson  at  their  death, 
234;  letters  to  O'Connor  about 
Emerson  and  Ruskin,  237,  238; 
Lafcadio  Hearn's  estimate  of,  239- 
244 ;  buys  a  house,  245 ;  visited 
by  hundreds,  24(5 ;  distinguished 
guests,  248;  new  friends,  249, 
252  ;  subscribers  to  purchase  of 
horse  and  buggy  for  him,  250, 251 ; 
public  receptions,  251,  252;  has 
alight  paralytic  shocks,  254  ;  last 
public  appearance,  255 ;  final  com- 
position, 258;  conversations,  259- 
270 ;  opinions  of  literature  and 
authors,  259-2G3;  knew  little  of 
art  and  music,  263,  264  ;  his  re- 
ligion, 265-267,  296  ;  buys  massive 
tomb,  270;  deatli  and  burial,  271, 
272  ;  poet  of  science  and  demo- 
cracy, 275, 292-301  ;  a  Mystic,  276, 
277,  280 ;  a  Romanticist,  277,  280 ; 
influenced  by  Transcendentalism, 
281 ;  two  chief  obstacles  to  pop- 
ularity, 282-288;  hia  imitators 


and  parodist*,  285,  286 ;  his  go* 
pel  of  nudity,  288-290  ;  a  man 
who  had  something  to  say,  291, 
302  ;  compared  with  Whictier, 
292  ;  his  "  divine  average  "  vague, 
292,  293 ;  his  ideal  of  democracy, 
295-299 ;  contrasted  with  Keats 
as  a  poet,  303,  304;  his  radical 
defect,  304-306  ;  most  original 
poetic  figure  since  Wordsworth, 
307. 

Whitman,  Walter,  nephew  of  Walt, 
244. 

Whitman,  Rev.  Zochariah,  of  Mil- 
ford,  Conn.,  2  n. 

Whittier,  John  Greenleaf ,  9, 25, 251 ; 
burns  presentation  copy  of  Leaves 
of  Grass,  100 ;  compared  with 
Whitman,  292. 

Wilber,  Oscar  F.,  138,  139. 

Wilde,  Oscar,  248. 

Williams,  Amy  (afterwards  Mrs. 
Cornelius  Van  Velaor),  Whitman's 
grandmother,  6. 

Williams,  Francis  Howard,  249; 
reads  at  Whitman's  funeral,  271. 

Williams,  Capt.  John,  6. 

Williams,  Talcott,  active  friend  of 
Whitman,  249-251 ,  270. 

Woolley,  Mary  (Mrs.  John  Wil- 
liams), 6. 

Worthington,  New  York  publisher, 
issues  many  editions  of  Leaves  oj 
Grass  without  paying  royalty, 
126. 


AMERICAN  STATESMEN 

Ciographies  of  Men  famous  in  the  Political  History  of  the  United 
States.    Edited  by  JOHN  T.  MORSE,  JR. 

Separately  they  are  interesting  and  entertaining  biographies  of  our  west  emi> 
ttnt  public  men  ;  as  a  series  they  are  especially  remarkable  as  constituting  f\ 
liistory  of  American  politics  and  policies  more  complete  and  more  useful  for  in* 
struct  ion  and  reference  than  any  that  I  am  aware  of.  —  HON.  JOHN  W.  GKIGG^ 
^x-United  States  Attorney-General. 

BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN.     By  JOHN  T.  MORSE,  JR. 

SAMUEL  ADAMS.     By  JAMES  K.  HOSMKR. 

PATRICK  HENRY.     By  MOSES  COIT  TYLBR. 

GEORGE  WASHINGTON.      By  HENRY  CABOT  LODGE.     2  volumes. 

JOHN  ADAMS.     By  JOHN  T.  MORSE,  JR. 

ALEXANDER  HAMILTON.     By  HENRY  CABOT  LODGE. 

GOUVERNEUR  MORRIS.    By  THEODORE  ROOSEVELT. 

JOHN  JAY.     By  GEORGE  PHLLEW. 

JOHN  MARSHALL.     By  ALLAN  B.  MAGRUDER. 

THOMAS  JEFFERSON.    By  JOHN  T.  MORSE,  JR. 

JAMES  MADISON.     By  SYDNEY  HOWARD  GAY. 

ALBERT  GALLATIN.     By  JOHN  AUSTIN  STEVENS. 

JAMES  MONROE.     By  D.  C.  OILMAN. 

JOHN  QUINCY  ADAMS.     By  JOHN  T.  MORSE,  JR. 

JOHN  RANDOLPH.     By  HENRY  ADAMS. 

ANDREW  JACKSON.     By  W.  G.  SUMNBR. 

MARTIN  VAN  BUREN.     By  EDWARD  W.  SHBPARD. 

HENRY  CLAY.     By  CARL  SCHURZ.    2  volumes. 

DANIEL  WEBSTER.    By  HENRY  CABOT  LODGE. 

JOHN  C.  CALHOUN.    By  DR.  H.  VON  HOLST. 

THOMAS  H,  BENTON.     By  THEODORE  ROOSEVELT. 

LEWIS  CASS.     By  ANDREW  C.  MCLAUGHLIN. 

ABRAHAM  LINCOLN.     By  JOHN  T.  MORSE,  JR.     2  volumes. 

WILLIAM  H.  SEWARD.     By  THORNTON  K.  LOTHROP. 

SA.LMON  P.  CHASE.     By  ALBERT  BUSHNELL  HART. 

CHARLES  FRANCIS  ADAMS.     By  C.  F.  ADAMS,  JR. 

CHARLES  SUMNER.     By  MOORFIELD  STOREY. 

THADDEUS  STEVENS.     By  SAMUEL  \V.  McCALL. 

SECOND   SERIES 

Biographies  of  men  particularly  influential  in  the  recent  Political  History  of  th* 

Nation. 

This  second  series  is  intended  to  supplement  the  original  list  of  America* 
Statesmen  by  the  addition  of  the  names  of  men  -who  have  helped  to  make  the  kit* 
tyry  of  the  United  States  since  the  Civil  War. 

JAMES  G.  ELAINE.  By  EDWARD  STANWOOD. 
JOHN  SHERMAN,  By  THEODORE  E.  BURTON. 
ULYSSES  S.  GRANT.  By  SAMUEL  W.  McCALL.  In  preparation. 

Other  interesting  additions  to  the  list  to  be  made  in  the  future. 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 


AMERICAN 

COMMONWEALTHS 

Volumes  devoted  to  such  States  of  the  Union  as  have  a  striking 
political,  social,  or  economic  history. 

The  books  which  form  this  series  are  scholarly  and  readable  individually ; 
Collectively,  the  series,  -when  completed,  will  present  a  history  of  the  nation,  setting 
forth  in  lucid  and  vigorous  style  the  varieties  of  government  and  of  social  life  to 
te found  in  the  various  commonwealths  included  in  the  federal  union. 

.   CALIFORNIA.    By  JOSIAH  ROYCE. 

CONNECTICUT.    By  ALEXANDER  JOHNSTON.  (Revised  Ed-) 
INDIANA,    By  J.  P.  DUNN,  JR.     (Revised  Edition.) 
KANSAS.    By  LEVERETT  W.  SPRING.     (Revised  Edition.) 
KENTUCKY.    By  NATHANIEL  SOUTHGATE  SHALER. 
LOUISIANA.    By  ALBERT  PHELPS. 

MARYLAND.    By  WILLIAM  HAND  BROWNE.    (Revised  Ed) 
MICHIGAN.    By  THOMAS  M.  COOLEY.    (Revised  Edition.) 
MINNESOTA.    By  WM.  W.  FOLWELL. 
MISSOURI.    By  LUCIEN  CARR. 
NEW  HAMPSHIRE.    By  FRANK  B.  SAN  BORN. 
NEW  YORK.    By  ELLIS  H.  ROBERTS.   2  vols.    (Revised  EdJ 
OHIO.     By  RUFUS  KING.     (Revised  Edition.) 
RHODE  ISLAND.    By  IRVING  B.  RICHMAN. 
TEXAS.    By  GEORGE  P.  GARRISON. 
VERMONT.    By  ROWLAND  E.  ROBINSON. 
VIRGINIA.    By  JOHN  ESTEN  COOKE.    (Revised  Edition.) 
"WISCONSIN.    By  REUBEN  GOLD  THWAITES. 

In  preparation 

GEORGIA.    By  ULRICH  B.  PHILLIPS. 
ILLINOIS.    By  JOHN  H.  FINLEY. 
IOWA.    By  ALBERT  SHAW. 
MASSACHUSETTS.    By  EDWARD  CHANNING. 
NEW  JERSEY.    By  AUSTIN  SCOTT. 
OREGON.    By  F.  H.  HODDER. 
PENNSYLVANIA.    By  TALCOTT  WILLIAMS. 

HOUGHTON  MIFFUN  COMPANY 


AMERICAN    MEN    OF 
LETTERS 

Biographies  of  our  most  eminent  American  Authors,  written  by 
men  who  are  themselves  prominent  in  the  field  of  letters. 

The  writers  of  these  biographies  are  themselves  A  mericans,  generally  familiar 
with  the  surroundings  in  "which  their  subjects  lived  and  the  conditions  under  "which 
their  -work  ivas  done.  Hence  the  volumes  are  peculiar  for  ihe  rare  combination  oj 
( critical  judgment  -with  sympathetic  understanding.  Collectively,  the  series  offers 
a  biographical  history  of  A  merican  Literature. 

WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT.    By  JOHN  BIGELOW. 
J.  FEN1MORE  COOPER.    By  T.  R.  LOUNSBURY. 
GEORGE  WILLIAM  CURTIS.    By  EDWARD  GARY. 
RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON.  By  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 
BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN.    By  JOHN  BACH  McM  ASTER. 
NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE.   By  GEORGE  E.  WOODBERRY. 
WASHINGTON  IRVING.    By  CHARLKS  DUDLEY  WARNER. 
SIDNEY  LANIER.    By  EDWIN  MIMS. 
HENRY  W.  LONGFELLOW.    By  T.  W.  HIGGINSON. 
JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL.    By  FERRIS  GREENSLET. 
MARGARET  FULLER  OSSOLL    By  T.  W.  HIGGINSON. 
FRANCIS  PARKMAN.    By  H.  D.  SEDGWICK. 
EDGAR  ALLAN  POE.    By  GEORGE  E.  WOODBERRY. 
WILLIAM  HICKLING  PRESCOTT.    By  ROLLO  OGDEN. 
GEORGE  RIPLEY.    By  O.  B.  FROTHINGHAM. 
WILLIAM  GILMORE  SIMMS.    By  WILLIAM  P.  T«ENT. 
BAYARD  TAYLOR.    By  ALBERT  H.  SMYTH. 
HENRY  D.  THOREAU.    By  FRANK  B.  SANBORN. 
NOAH  WEBSTER.    By  HORACE  E.  SCUDDER. 
WALT  WHITMAN.    By  BLISS  PERRY. 
JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER.    By  GEO.  R.  CA»PENTEI* 
NATHANIEL  PARKER  WILLIS.    By  HENRY  A.  BEERS. 

Other  titles  to  be  added. 


HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 


THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  SANTA  CRUZ 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  DATE  stamped  below. 


APR  301969 
WR  14  REDD 

DEC  1 0  1969 

DEC22RJC1 

DEC  12  < 

DrC  1  8  1979  REC'fl 

FEBH'90 

1990REC'D 


30m-8,'65(F6282s8)2373 


3  2106  00208  3985 


